


Forget Me Not by Ocean Born Mary

by Ocean_Born_Mary



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ocean_Born_Mary/pseuds/Ocean_Born_Mary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn has run away in the past. Another fight, and once again he's gone. Who knew he was coming back? Who knew he was in trouble? Shawn always runs, right? Besides, why would this time be any different?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no one from Psych.
> 
> This was previously posted on Psychfic.

This last argument had most certainly taken the cake. Shawn could clearly remember the last time he had been this angry with his father, and it had involved a night in a cell over stolen keys and a girl. And it had later involved the very thing that Shawn was doing now—running away on a motorcycle that his father despised. For the past four hours the fake psychic had been driving non-stop, except for a quick gas run, taking whichever road that would get him away the fastest. For someone who was supposed to be psychic, Shawn had to admit that he should have seen this coming. The way his dad would show up to make sure he had back-up, and would call, in the middle of a case, and have him come over…the way he had tried to have the department psychologist intervene…but he never did realize, that deep down, his father was truly worried about his safety.

It had escalated this past afternoon, when his father got a call from the Chief, saying that he was being held hostage by the suspect, having gone in when no one believed his psychic throes. And Shawn had to admit that his dad was right…none of this would have happened if Shawn had a badge and a gun. Shawn would have been able to draw a gun, legally, in response. And in hindsight, it was really rather stupid of him to throw his phone out and pitch his wallet in the trash, taking only the wad of cash from under the sink…his dad meant well…usually.

Pulling over to the shoulder, Shawn took a deep breath and lifted off his helmet, scrubbing at his face. “Stupid,” he muttered. That was what he was. He’d blown a fuse and run…something he’d promised himself he’d never do again. He couldn’t run out on his dad. Not like his mom had run out on them…he didn’t want to lose his dad too. No. He had to fix this. For once he’d admit that he was wrong, and apologize. Just this once. But there was no way in hell that he was building another dog house. Shoving his helmet on with a little more force than necessary, Shawn made an illegal u-turn and headed home.

Yet, characteristic of his life, another event occurred that Shawn should have seen coming. Just as he began contemplating whether or not buying his dad a new whisk on the way home would save his sorry hide, his gas meter dropped below empty and the bike’s engine began sputtering ominously. Swearing under his breath, Shawn brought the bike to a puttering stop on the side of the road, jaw clenching as the first drop of rain made its unwelcome way down the back of his neck. He had no cell phone. It was pitch black outside. He was in the middle of nowhere…and of course, it had to start raining. Shoving his bike behind some bushes, and hoping he’d be able to get back to it eventually (maybe after some hard core pleading with his dad), Shawn grabbed his backpack and began meandering his way down the road, hopefully towards civilization and a pay phone…where he’d call collect.

 

“Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of beer…” Walking sucked. Within five minutes he was soaked. And miserable…and it really didn’t help that the only thing he had to look forward to was another lecture from his father…and one from Gus…and then their combined “disappointed” faces…the thought was enough to nearly make him turn and walk in the opposite direction, maybe even head back to Mexico. Shawn was on his 66.67th bottle of beer, and was just about to take it down and pass it around when he saw his salvation…headlights.

 

“Hey, HEY!!!” Diving into the middle of the road, Shawn began jumping and waving his arms around like a maniac, calculating how fast he’d have to move if the car didn’t slow down. Thankfully, the car slowed, and then pulled to the side of the road, and Shawn scrambled over, hoping this meant that his fortune was changing and soon he’d be on his way to Santa Barbara… “Dude, thanks so much for stopping, you have no idea how bad…hey…”

 

Shawn had seen a piece enough to recognize what it looked like, and had fired one enough to recognize the Glock even in the shadowy confines of the beat up red Chevy. Backing up slowly, and realizing there was really no where for him to either run or hide, he held his palms out in what he hoped was an appeasing manner. “I’ll…just go…”

 

The door jerked open to reveal a goliath of a man, and Shawn couldn’t help but vaguely wonder if he hadn’t been an ogre in another life. In the dark, Shawn wasn’t able to discern his features, but by the smell, he was certain the guy hadn’t bathed in awhile. The headlights glittered off the gun, and caught gold capped teeth, from this angle the license plate number seared itself to his brain, as did the out-of-state plates, before he was distracted. “Put the bookbag down!”

 

“Okay, just take it easy…” As he eased the straps off his shoulders, Shawn realized that this was probably the reason that hitchhiking had been made illegal. No wonder his dad had been so adamant when he was a kid about this stuff. Shawn decided rather quickly that his dad had no reason to know that he was right, and that this little incident would be a well kept secret between him and the guy with the gun, more fondly known as Bigfoot.

 

“Against the car!”

 

Easing around the gun, he caught another whiff of the guy, and realized the sickly smell wasn’t body odor, but crystal meth, reminding him of another situation that his dad was to never know about…at least that had happened in Mexico. Shawn put himself against the car, Cops style, and was starting to wish he’d tried to convince the Chief to let him get a license to carry concealed, when he felt the guy start patting him down. “Hey!”

 

“Where’s your wallet?”

 

Okay, it had been a really, really bad decision on his part to throw away both cell phone and wallet.

 

“Umm…I kinda threw it away.”

 

He could hear the contents of his backpack being dumped, and heard the whistle of appreciation when the wad of cash hit the ground.

 

“Look, you can have the money…”

 

He felt the sudden blow against his head, pain exploding behind his eyes, and started crumpling to the ground, hitting his head a second time off the corner of the driver’s door, a door that Bigfoot had never closed. His vision began closing in on itself as his mind clouded, and as the pavement moved up to meet his face, Shawn vaguely hoped that his father never got wind of this incident, because he certainly wasn’t going to live it down…

 

 

 


	2. Betrayal of the Mind

**Santa Barbara** **, 1986.**

 

_“I can’t, Dad! I can’t remember!”_

_The young kid in front of him was close to tears, and Henry hated to push him further, but knew that it had to be done, it was in his best interest. “Yes you can, kiddo. I know you can. Now close your eyes.”_

_Shawn swallowed hard, wrenching his eyes shut. He lifted his fingers to his temples, wincing as they brushed against his head wound, and lightly touched the stitches._

_“Good. Now, what were you doing?”_

_“I…I don’t know.”_

_“Think, Shawn. Where did you go yesterday after school?”_

_“Gus…Gus and I…we went to his house…because…because you had to work…and Mom…Mom said she had to go out…”_

_“Alright, then what happened?”_

_“We…we went outside, and we were playing…we were playing…”_

_“What were you playing, Shawn?”_

_“We were playing eye spy…”_

_“I’m sure that was a fair game,” Henry muttered. “And then what?”_

_“I…I don’t know, Dad…”_

_“C’mon, pal. Did you hear anything?”_

_Shawn’s face wrinkled, in pain or concentration, Henry wasn’t sure. He was just about to let the kid go when his face cleared, and a smirk of satisfaction played across the young boy’s lips. “Music…there’s music…the ice cream truck! The ice cream truck! But it wasn’t the ice cream man! He tried to grab Gus, and I kicked him, and Gus got away, and he started screaming…he grabbed me, and I bit him…he threw me, and I hit my head off of…that big rock in Gus’ neighbor’s yard…”_

_“That’s good, kid…”_

_“YAG8159.”_

_“What?”_

_“That’s the plate number…and the plate…it was from Washington.”_

_“Good job, kid.” Henry ruffled Shawn’s hair as reached past him for the phone. “I’ll get them to run the number down at the station.”_

 

**Santa Barbara** **, Present Day**

 

Henry stared sullenly out the window, half-expecting to see a motorcycle pull up and his son to come pounding on the door, demanding some sort of help on his latest case. He knew that wasn’t going to happen though—he’d probably blown it this time, he hadn’t seen Shawn this angry since he was eighteen…and next thing he’d known, Shawn was gone. He’d high-tailed it on that death-trap vehicle of his, and that was the end of that. For a good while, they hadn’t talked at all—and then, eventually, he started getting postcards, and then pictures of his son in awkward situations: hanging out of a dead creature’s mouth, on top of a giant hot dog, and numerous photos of his hands and feet. He highly doubted he’d even be getting that now.

He’d had Gus stop over the apartment, and all the signs pointed to Shawn ditching. Gus had found his cell phone in the garbage dispenser, and his wallet, full of his i.d. and credit cards, in the trash can. The emergency cash stash was missing, ipod, laptop, and a couple of photos were gone. Shawn’s leather jacket was missing, and the money to terminate his renter’s contract was in an envelope on the counter. Gus had recognized that Shawn wasn’t coming back anytime soon, they’d be lucky if he decided to come back at all if the argument was anything like Gus suspected it was. In the back of his mind, the young man hoped that his best friend hadn’t ended up in handcuffs this time.

Henry had refused to divulge the reason behind the argument, hanging up on Gus, and calling back five minutes later, demanding to know if Shawn called, emailed, or attempted any sort of psychic contact…And when Karen called the retired police officer, asking where her consultant was, he told her he wasn’t sure, but thought he’d gone to help his mother, and he didn’t think that the kid would be back anytime soon, if ever. The last part he kept to himself, though. Henry really didn’t want to think of the possibility of Shawn never coming back. He’d driven past the agency earlier, and saw Gus hanging a temporarily closed sign.

Sitting at home, staring at the pineapple that his son had dropped off earlier that week, Henry felt white-hot anger course through him, making his chest tight and his heart race. Though if he was angry with his son, or with himself…the pineapple flew against the wall. “Goddamnit, kid…come home…please, just come home.”

The words echoed in the silent kitchen, leaving Henry with nothing more than a smashed pineapple, and an empty heart.

 

*~~*

 

There was a strange beeping sound. It was echoing around him…where was he? He was floating, he felt hazy…. The beeping was back. How much time had passed? It didn’t matter, he was safe, and warm…so, so…oh, it hurt, it hurt, his head was going to explode…

“Lowered morphine…”

“…wake him up…”

“Missing persons…”

“…no reports…”

“Uhhhh…”

“Close the blinds.”

It hurt, someone make it stop…the fuzzy warmth was leaving…something was pulling him, the pain was pulling him…this had to be what it felt like to have your brain splattered all over God’s green earth, except in slow motion….His eyes blinked open, they were heavy, so heavy…

“Hello, there.”

It sounded like someone was dying, someone should go and see to that person, and put them out of their misery, make them stop moaning…

“Cut back the IV drip, see if we can make him more coherent…”

It was him, he was making that noise…

His mind cleared in stages, the pain less encompassing, less debilitating, but still reminding himself of its presence with every beat of his heart. Finally, he was able to pry his eyes open, and recognized that he was looking at a white coated doctor, and a nurse. “Hey there,” the doctor smiled gently. “We were hoping you’d wake up. Welcome to LA. I’m Doctor Sullivan. If you’re wondering how you got here, you were air lifted in when you were found bleeding out on the side of the road. How do you feel?”

He attempted to clear his throat, wondered who had stuffed cotton balls down it, and then was offered a straw, and sucked down the liquid, increasing the pain in his head with each pull, but the water cleared his throat, and even though it didn’t quench his thirst, the cotton balls started to dissolve. They moved the cup away before he’d had his fill, and his mouth attempted to follow it, letting loose a disgruntled whine when it was placed out of his reach.

“Easy, you’ve been out of it…almost four days now. So, how do you feel.”

“Head…hurts…” he had a feeling his voice wasn’t supposed to be that raspy.

“I would expect so. We’re trying to cut back the morphine, so I don’t think that’ll be going away anytime soon.”

The doctor gestured to the nurse, and he felt the bed being adjusted, the whine of the mechanical bed as it strained under his weight grated on his ears.

A penlight flashed in his eyes, causing him to wince. “How’s your vision, double, blurry?”  
“Fine, as long as you don’t do that again.” He heard the nurse snort, and glanced over, eyes drawn immediately towards the friendship bracelet on her wrist, a mismatch of colors and uneven knots. “How old is your daughter?”

“She’s seven…how’d you know?”

“The bracelet. Girl Scout’s, right?”

“Yeah…” The nurse smiled, confusion playing across her features.

“Can you wiggle your fingers? Your toes?”

“Check, and check…don’t ask me to shake my head, I have a feeling that’ll just make me hurt worse…”

“Well, I can assure you I won’t do that…now, we just need some information for your chart. Name, date of birth, that sort of stuff.”

He froze, expression that of a deer caught in headlights. “Name?”

“Is something wrong?”

He tried to push his mind back, but it only resulted in stars exploding across the universe that was his head, quickly followed by a comforting endlessness that could only be a black hole.

The next time he woke up, the pain had abated some, but the doctor was still there. “We ran a couple of imaging tests while you were out of it. Appears that there is some swelling in your brain…which is probably what is causing your memory loss. Unfortunately, we’ve checked for missing persons, and there is no one that has reported someone of your description missing.”

“So what do I do next, Doc?” He pulled himself up on his elbows, bringing himself to a sitting position, and fingering the stitches that graced his face.

“I talked to a neurologist, he looked at the images, and believes that you should heal fine…and is hopeful, that you may regain your memories.”

“May?”

“Well, the biggest issue is we don’t have anyone who knows you…patients with amnesia usually benefit from being in familiar surroundings. You’re going to be released soon, and there isn’t anywhere for you to go…” The doctor sighed. “My first suggestion would be to get a place to live, and a job. I’m prescribing therapy, hopefully that may help…”

“So, do I get a cool name, like, Dirty Dancer, Ruler of the World and all things Musical?” The doctor appeared un-amused. Maybe he just didn’t appreciate Patrick Swayze…Why could he remember who Patrick Swayze was, and he didn’t even know his own name… _I think I just got a lap dance from Patrick Swayze…_

He was pulled back to earth by what sounded like a broken muffler, only to realize the doctor was clearing his throat. “Are you even listening to me?”

He nodded, and then almost gave up hold on his internal organs as his head reminded him of its connection to his stomach. Swallowing past what must have been his liver, it felt too big to be anything smaller, he attempted to listen to the rambling doctor.

“For now, why don’t you pick a simple name…something that seems familiar…and I’d say the same for the job.” The doctor tossed a book into his lap. “Here’s a book of names…I’ll be back in about half-an-hour, and the nurse should be in with your lunch soon.”

“Thanks, Doc. Maybe I’ll pick out a cool new name for you too.”

The doctor left the room, shaking his head ruefully. He flipped through the book, and flirted shamelessly with the nurse, ignoring the grey lump on his tray and skipping straight to the blue Jell-O.

Trying again to push his memory back, he nearly ended up vomiting up his Jell-O, and decided that attempting anything involving his head was probably a bad idea for the next few days. But he felt a vague sense of accomplishment. When the doctor came back, he knew what name he’d use.

 

*~~*

 

“Do you think we should file a missing person’s report?”

“No, Gus. I think he needs to cool off, and you know it could take him years to do that. I’m sure he’s off riding that death trap down to Mexico right now.”

And Gus had to admit, that Henry Spencer was probably right. If Shawn needed him, he’d call. If not…well, sometimes, it was best to just leave well enough alone. As he made his way through the kitchen, the sweet smell of rotten fruit caught the Super Smeller’s attention. Against the wall were the splattered remains of a pineapple, Henry apparently hadn’t been able to scrape the entirety of it off the paint yet. Hoping that the crushed fruit wasn’t some sort of foreshadowing about his best friend, Gus made his way to the car, marveling on how silent it was now that there wasn’t someone next to him to change the radio station settings every forty-five seconds, and wondering why he missed it so much.

 

*~~*

 

“Hey, Doc!”

“How’d you know it was me, you didn’t even look up.”

“You are wearing soft-soled shoes, and you have the habit of tapping your wedding band of your clipboard and your clipboard off your thigh. Unlike the nurse, who is wearing rubber shoes, they squeak anytime she drags her toes, which is about every fourth step.”

“I wonder where you learned to do that…”

“Wish I could tell, ya.”

“So, any names seem familiar to you?”

“I keep thinking of some dog, and a kid in a well…”

“Lassie?”

“Yes….no…Lassi…Lassi…Yeah. I think that’s my last name.”

“And first name?”

“Henry. Henry Lassi.”

“Well, Henry Lassi, it is nice to meet you. Do you have any idea what you are going to do when you grow up?”

Nodding vaguely and biting his lip, while congratulating himself when lunch didn’t land all over the floor, he sighed. “This is going to sound really weird.”

“What? Are you going to say you’re a psychic or something?”

He snorted. “Yeah, that’s real funny. A psychic. No…you see…I think…I think I was…a cop.”

 

 

 

 


	3. Blue Jello Brain

Henry stared blankly at his morning paper, vainly looking for some sort of story about his psychic son. He’d become use to seeing it in the local newspaper, headlines about the psychic detective who had cracked this case or that, or who had been caught convening with a penny in a parking lot, trying to call up the spirit of President Lincoln. Human interest pieces that never made it further than the Santa Barbara Daily Times, but that always ended up in a shoebox under Henry’s bed. Flipping the page, he startled at the rustle the paper made, the house seemed so much quieter now that there wasn’t someone barging in unexpectedly at odd times. How often had he complained about the noise? About his things disappearing and reappearing later in strange places? And the presets on his radio in the truck changing at least once a week? When had he grown used to his son appearing, looking for help on a case? When had he come to enjoy his son’s presence at the dinner table? When did he start relishing their arguments? And why did he only realize that he would miss him after he was gone?

 

Crossing the kitchen for the phone, he had half dialed the department’s number, intent on filing a missing person’s report, when he thought better of it and hung up the phone. Putting Shawn under as a missing person would just cause the kid to get even more upset, make him think that Henry didn’t trust him to take care of himself at all—because that was what he had said, wasn’t it? That Shawn needed a babysitter wherever he went, he couldn’t be trusted to not get in trouble, just like the time he’d stolen gum out of the Easter basket when he was three…

 

Okay, so maybe this was his fault. He’d just gotten so worried about Shawn when he’d heard that he was being held at gunpoint…

 

Right, he’d overreacted a little bit. When Shawn finally resurfaced, he’d apologize…but that kid owed him at least three dog houses for scaring him like that and then running off…And maybe after they finished building them together, he’d get Shawn a little boy cat to go with them.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Human beings weren’t meant to subsist off of blue Jell-O for periods longer than a week. He’d decided that after the first week. But the pain medication that he was taking for his constant headache often tried to make him purge his gut. It appeared only a sacrifice of Jell-O would please his stomach and keep him from visiting the porcelain god. Thankfully, the second week, they had started weaning him off the medication, and though the pain hadn’t abated completely, he could start eating more solid foods. If he ever was released from the hospital.

 

It appeared the staff had taken a liking to him, and were attempting to try to convince him to move in permanently. He thanked them kindly, and turned down the offer. They hadn’t completely given up trying, but Doctor Sullivan had found a couple of suitable apartments, and the staff had taken a collection around the entire hospital, so he would have enough for down payment and the next couple of months rent. It was sweet of them, they’d even paid for most of his medical bills, and he’d decided to pay them back as soon as he possibly could.

 

There was a knock on the doorframe and the good doctor appeared. “Hey, Lass.” That was the other thing he’d decided…Henry…it was familiar, but he just didn’t feel right using it. As if for some reason that name should strike fear and terror into his heart, or at least an extreme feeling of guilt. Lassie, on the other hand, seemed to bring a grin to his face for no reason, and so he’d decided to go by Lass. “How’s your head today?”

 

“Great, Doc.”

 

“Good.” Doctor Sullivan smiled, and scribbled on his chart. “Now, I’m going to give you a prescription of Vicodin. You aren’t to take this every day, but as the swelling starts to go down, you’re probably going to get migraines. Especially under stress, or, as your memory begins to return.”

 

“Thanks,” Lass smiled, “Does this mean I’m getting out?”

 

“Well, I know you want to leave, but why don’t you get dressed, and then I have someone that wants to meet you.”

 

“Yes!” He jumped from the bed, ignoring the fact that he was only dressed in a scanty hospital gown, and focusing on the fact that he was getting out of this bar-less prison.

 

“Calm down…and stop jumping, or I’ll have them medicate you again!”

 

“Sorry.” He couldn’t keep that ridiculous grin off his face, and bounded over to grab the stack of clothes.

 

“We had them cleaned, but they’re yours.”

 

Lass froze, hand hovering over the green t-shirt and jeans. _Your one true love will be wearing sneakers and an Apple Jacks t-shirt._ Vaguely, he realized he was shaking…no trembling. Trembling like some stupid leaf in the wind, unable to keep itself from being blown away, but hanging on, desperately clinging, unwilling to go of that last thread… _Hair blonde…a smile…_

 

“Lass!” The hand on his shoulder snapped him out of it, blowing the leaf off the branch as the wind took the last of his memory with it. “You okay?”

 

“I’m…I’m fine.”

 

“Okay, then get dressed, I’ll bring in your visitor in a couple of minutes.” The doctor gave him one last squeeze on his shoulder and then turned, leaving him alone with the clothes and a half-eaten plate of blue Jell-O.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

“Mr. Guster?”

 

Picking up the smoothie from the counter, Gus turned to meet the blue gaze. “Detective.” Lassiter and O’Hara were sitting at a small table that allowed them to have a view of the entire room. And Gus knew that they were sitting there because it was well known that this was the place that Shawn came to most often when looking for delicious flavor in the form of a pineapple smoothie.

 

“Come sit with us!”

 

“Sorry, Juliet. I have work to do, I really need to finish my run…” But the truth was, without Shawn here, he’d gotten his weekly run done in half the time, and now really had nothing to do.

 

“Just for a minute.”

 

So Gus sat, wondering how Shawn could draw such three different personalities together, in a way that they would continue to socialize, even after he was gone. Lassiter looked tired, and Juliet just looked sad.

 

“I never thought I’d say this…” Gus looked up to meet the head detective’s eyes, “…but I don’t know what to do now that Spencer isn’t rearranging my desk every two seconds or sneaking onto crimescenes. Have you heard from him? How’s his mother?”

 

“His mother?”

 

“When we asked the chief she said Mr. Spencer said he’d gone to help his mother.”

 

Gus looked at Juliet, confused for a second, and then shook his head. “No, that’s just Spencer speak for they got in a fight again. Shawn ran off afterwards, took his bike, and ditched his wallet and his phone. At least this time he had the foresight to terminate his rental agreement. Last time he did this, I thought his landlord was going to smite him with Zeus’ lightning bolts.”

 

“And he hasn’t tried to call?” Lassiter sounded worried, but hid it by taking a large sip of his coffee, sloshing it over the rim and onto the table.

 

“It isn’t that unusual. Once he went nearly a year without contact. Turns out he was teaching kids English in Thailand…”

 

“I can just imagine the words those kids learned…”

 

“I think their first accomplishment was the entirety of _Baby Got Back_.”

 

Lassiter shook his head, bringing a hand up to his face and running it over his eyes. Juliet snorted, causing bubbles to form in her soda.

 

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Gus said. “Henry won’t let anyone file a missing person’s report.”

 

“Why not?” Juliet reached over and mopped up Lassiter’s coffee with her napkin.

 

“Last time he did that, Shawn threatened to never come back.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“Henry Lassie, I’d like you to meet my friend, Detective Hamilton.”

 

“It’s nice to meet you, Detective.” The handshake was firm, but friendly, and the grey-haired detective’s calm demeanor put him at ease, pushing the t-shirt incident from his thoughts.

 

“And you. I understand that you believe that you may have been an officer before the, well, accident.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his doctor sidle from the room, leaving them alone. “We don’t have any reports of missing officers…but the LAPD has agreed to evaluate you at the Police Academy. If you were an officer…”

 

His eye caught on the smudge of rust on the detective’s shoe, traveling upward to the crinkled suit pants and rubber gloves that hung from his pocket. Taking in the dark circles under his eyes and the tremor in his hands that bespoke of too much coffee, his mind seemed to suddenly make lightning fast connections, and before he knew it, Lass had opened his mouth. “Serial killer…that must be rough.”

 

The officer stopped speaking. “How did you…there haven’t been any reports released…”

 

“Blood on the shoe, means recent crime scene, as do the gloves. Disheveled clothes, you look tired, and wrung out. Too much coffee, and a long case involving a recent murder? Must be a serial killer.”

 

Stunned silence filled the room, and Lass fidgeted nervously, wondering if he’d done something wrong, or perhaps said the wrong thing. Tinny voices filtered from the detective’s pocket and he pulled out a miniature police scanner. “I’ve got to go…but I wanted to take you to the academy for testing…oh, hell, why don’t you just come with me.”

 

“Thank you, sir. I would be glad to go.” As soon as the detective turned Lass jumped into the air in victory, doing a familiar little happy dance before taking down the hall after his future.

 

Fifteen minutes later they were pulling into the parking lot of a country club that was surrounded by flashing lights and tape, shouts filtering across the ground as the owner argued over the fact that his clients were being detained because some stupid woman leaned on a railing and fell from the balcony. Detective Hamilton jumped out of his car, eating the ground in long strides, Lass doing a jump skip out of the car, nearly tripping over the lip, and then chasing after him. They ducked under the yellow tape, Lass mentally noted that it was upside down, and across the lawn.

 

“Officer Cullen!”

 

“Detective Hamilton, sir.” The kid turned around quickly, and held out the clipboard to the detective, causing the irate man behind him, clearly the owner, to throw his hands up in frustration. No one noticed as Lass sidled over to the body, taking in the balcony and surrounding area quickly, before glancing at the owner, mind racing to put together quickly gathered clues.

 

“What do we have, officer?”

 

“Looks like an accident, sir. Woman leaned on the balcony railing, it snapped, and she fell.”

 

“All right, I need you to do something for me officer, I need you to take Henry Lassie down to the Academy and have him take the paper test and a weapons test. I need the results immediately, and I need…”

 

“This was not an accident!”

 

Everyone froze. “Who the hell is this?!”

 

“Ahh,” Lass smiled. “You must be the owner, Mr…”

 

“Jenkins.”

 

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins. Your ex-wife did not accidently fall to her death.”

 

“What…”

 

“You knew she was coming to see you today, didn’t you Mr. Jenkins…don’t deny it, both of you have tan lines where wedding bands should have been…”

 

“How could you get off…”

 

“I’m sure one of they many people who visit your club regularly could confirm it.”

 

Jenkins shut up.

 

“What is he doing?” Officer Cullen whispered.

 

“Let’s wait and see,” answered Hamilton, intrigued.

 

“As I was saying, Mr. Jenkins, you knew your ex was coming, and I bet she wanted something from you. Whatever it was, you couldn’t give it to her, and so, you had to get rid of her.”

 

“This is all well and good…”

 

“Lassie, Henry Lassie.”

 

“Right, but you have no way of…”

 

“The balcony railing had been sawed half-way through in two places, as you see, the railing pinned underneath the body is clean cut here and here, before it splinters off at the bottom.”

 

Detective Hamilton stepped forward to examine it. “It is, Cullen, didn’t you notice this?”

 

“Well…”

 

“I’ll take that as a no. Go on, Lassie.”

 

“Thank you. This was clearly done with a hand saw, as you can see by the uneven teeth marks. Apparently, Mr. Jenkins ex-wife didn’t give him enough warning, because he was unable to change between the time he fixed the railing and her arrival, leaving the grease smudge on his white golf shirt, there.”

 

Hamilton turned to scrutinize their newest suspect, hand already trailing down to his cuffs in a manner that seemed strangely familiar to Lass. Shaking off his déjà vu, Lass continued.

 

“But I don’t believe that she leaned against the railing voluntarily. No. You fought…I’m sure some of those that have been detained can attest to raised voices. You waited until she was close to the railing, and then, you pushed her against it. The sawed through portion cracked under her weight, and she fell to her death, but not before she reached out, looking for a handhold, and pulled your handkerchief from your pocket, which is still clutched in her hand.”

 

Mr. Jenkins had paled, his fingers running nervously through his comb over, and reaching to his pocket, looking for the missing handkerchief. Not finding it, he raised his eyes and glanced nervously at the officers that had begun closing in on him.

 

“What…what was I supposed to do?!” his voice came out high-pitched and breathy. “She was pregnant…she’s was going to make me pay child support…”

 

“It is too bad, then, Mr. Jenkins,” Hamilton toned, gesturing an officer forward, “that because of the death of the fetus you can be charged on two counts of murder in California. Read him his rights and book him.”

 

Lass felt the pain suddenly spike in his head, but took a deep gulp of air, deciding that he would be getting that Vicodin prescription filled as soon as humanly possible. Especially since the pain was wrestling with his instinct to jump up and down insanely with victory.

 

Hamilton turned back to Cullen, lowering his voice. “On second thought, Cullen, forget the paper test, see how he handles a gun, and if it is even remotely anything like his performance now, I want a badge with his name on it by the end of the day. Got it?”

 

“Ye…Yes, sir.”

 

 

 


	4. Bullet to the Brain

 

Click, click. Bam. Dink…Click, click…

 

There was something comforting about the rhythm of a semi-automatic. The sound of the discarded shell clinking against the ground was distant and soothing. He could remember the first time he’d done this…well, the first time he could remember doing this. It had only been a month and a half ago. His whole life boiled down into a month and a half. Click, click. He didn’t need to focus on that, just the rhythm of the gun…

 

Officer Cullen had brought him down to the shooting range, in the basement of the academy. Click, click, bang, bang. Five rounds gone. Two seconds, three tops. Only one hole.

 

“You only hit it once.”

 

Cullen brought the target forward, “Maybe you should slow it down…” Up close the hole was much larger, and just where the heart would have been, five bullet holes overlapped.

 

Lass grinned. The gun felt good. “Yeah, maybe I should. I’ll bring it down to Mach Five next time.”

 

“There is no way…Hamilton can’t even…” Cullen whistled appreciatively. “Hold on a second…”

 

Five minutes later a line of objects were stacked at the opposite end of the firing range, among them an empty Tic-Tac container, a pack of cigarettes, a Hershey Kiss, and a six pack of beer confiscated from a sixteen year old. Money was switching hands, bets being taken on whether Lass would hit one of them or all of them, or perhaps none at all. A minute later a new line of objects appeared, money switched hands again, and soon a bout of chanting could be heard from the upper levels, causing the chief to appear and break up the entire affair, but not before he won a good $100 from a couple of gullible deputies. Twenty minutes later Lass had been an official LAPD detective, an apprentice of sorts to Detective Hamilton.

 

Click, Bam.

 

Since then he’d spent stressful days down in the firing range.

 

Today had been a stressful day.

 

He’d had another therapy session.

 

This had been one of the ones where the psychologist tried to use hypnosis.

 

It didn’t work.

 

Those weren’t his memories.

 

Dink…Click…

 

Stupid…

 

But all he could see was the image of a woman in a nightgown, standing in the window, a window so high up…and then she leaned forward…

 

Bam.

 

 

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Click, click. Bam.

 

Given the chance, he would kill Shawn Spencer.

 

Dink, click…

 

Fine, he’d just mortally wound him.

 

Only so he couldn’t leave again.

 

Bam.

 

The coffee mug shattered. That was for the look of hope in his partner’s eyes every time the front door to the SBPD opened. And the look of disappointment that followed.

 

Click. Bam.

 

For every time he heard a motorcycle and turned to look.

 

Every time he saw Burton Guster wandering around, looking a little bit lost.

 

And for every time he saw Henry Spencer. Henry Spencer, who hadn’t gone fishing since Shawn had left.

 

Dink.

 

Right. He’d make sure Spencer was hurt enough that he could never leave again.

 

Click… “Carlton!”

 

Pulling off the protective gear, Lassiter turned the safety on and moved to face the junior detective.

 

“What is it, O’Hara?”

 

“They found the kid that was missing.”

 

“Where?”

 

“The bottom of the river.”

 

“Let’s go.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Lass slipped quietly around the corner, instincts kicking in as he eavesdropped on Hamilton and Cullen.

 

“Don’t you think we should see if anyone knows who he is?”

 

Hamilton glanced around, and seeing no one within listening distance, spoke. “He is one of the best detectives I have ever seen. I don’t know how he does it half the time, I don’t know how he became like he is, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. If someone recognizes him, we’re going to lose him, and I don’t think this department can afford that!”

 

“What if someone is looking for him?”

 

“Nobody is looking for him, I check the missing persons every week. He’s a John Doe with no memory and amazing reasoning skills, not to mention a decent shot.”

 

“So, essentially, we’re using him.”

 

“Leave this to me, Officer Cullen. Alright?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

It was really too bad he’d just left the firing range. The temptation to turn around and shoot up another target was nearly overwhelming.

 

Then again…no one was looking for him. That was clear. He checked the missing person’s reports every week himself. And he couldn’t really blame Hamilton. He had helped him out…

 

Pasting on a big grin, Lass rounded the corner. “Hey! Hammy! Dude, lets go grab a sandwich and a smoothie at Jamba Juice.”

 

“I’ll be down in a minute…and straighten your tie.”

 

“At least he’s wearing one this time,” muttered Cullen.

 

A well placed glare cut him off.

 

“I…I’ll go get that file you wanted…”

 

“That’s a good idea. Lassie, grab my jacket on your way down, I’ll be right there.”

 

 

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Three months was a long time. A long time to go without talking to your best friend. Long enough that you start taking down things at work. Packing up the frog, dropping off the mountain bike at his dad’s house. And then sitting down across from said dad, both nursing a beer in silence.

 

Funny, how it hadn’t hurt this bad the last time he left.

 

Last time, Gus had expected it.

 

Had known Shawn was going to bolt. Everyone had known, and no one was surprised.

 

Shawn had changed though. And despite his antics, Shawn had started to grow up, just a little bit, and take responsibility for his actions. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be caught break dancing on Lassiter’s desk, because he still did, but it meant that Shawn didn’t bolt anymore, didn’t run out when something got a little too tough to handle. Sure, he’d steam and swear, and threaten and then try to cajole Gus off to Mexico, but it was always half-hearted. Done more because Shawn thought it was expected of him. But Gus had seen it in his eyes in the recent months, Shawn was happy, and he felt like he was finally home.

 

Henry knew it too. Gus could see it in the circles under his eyes.

 

They both knew that if Shawn was alright, he would have called.

 

He would have sent a postcard, of him posing as a swimsuit model. Or of him, somehow, standing on the head of the Statue of Liberty. (Gus still prayed daily that that picture had been Photoshopped—he couldn’t even imagine how his friend would have managed to make it from the torch to her nose).

 

Just as Gus was about to stand up and leave, the phone rang. Henry’s chair scraped across the tile, grating on Gus’ ears, before he answered the phone with a stiff, “Henry Spencer.”

 

There was a pause, and then Henry’s knuckles gripped the edge of the counter, turning white. “Are you sure?”

 

Gus stood then, edging closer and trying to catch Henry’s eyes.

 

“Karen…” Henry sighed. “I know…but…you need all the manpower you can get on the serial killer case…Alright…thanks for calling. Night.”

 

“What? What is it?” His heart was in his throat, he couldn’t breathe around it…

 

“Someone found Shawn’s bike, abandoned off of some road. Apparently it has been there for awhile, some sort of plant was using it as a trellis.”

 

Gus stood frozen. Shawn wouldn’t leave his bike…it was the only child that man was ever going to have. Especially if Lassiter were to ever find him…the detective had sworn to make sure he could never move again.

 

“The gas gauge was on empty. He must have run out of gas…”

 

“So, what are we going to…”

 

“We can’t do anything. The bike has been there for months. If Shawn is alright, that isn’t going to change…and…”

 

“What if he isn’t?! What then?”

 

Gus couldn’t believe this. The Great Henry Spencer, was going to do nothing…

 

“THEN HE’S PROBABLY ALREADY DEAD!”

 

The ocean rushed in Gus’ ears and the last thing he saw was the picture on the fridge, of Shawn and his dad about a week before Shawn had left, before his brain shut down and the world went black.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

At the same time that Gus’ brain was shutting off, Lass’ had just turned on, causing him to rocket out of bed and stumble down the hall towards the bathroom. The Vicodin wasn’t working, and the more he tried to remember, the more Lass’ head hurt. He’d been trying one of the exercises that the therapist had recommended, some sort of meditation where he attempted to push his mind back…

 

_Should we slice this up for the road?_

 

And every time he did he ended up with a headache and a craving for a pineapple smoothie. Neither of which was very helpful.

 

Fifteen minutes later he was in the car with Hammy, who’d generously offered to pick him up, on the way to a crime scene. Apparently some sort of drug deal was going down, and it was his and Hamilton’s turn to lead the bust. “Can we go get a smoothie first?”

 

“No. We’re going to be late as it is because your hair had to be just right.”

 

“You’re just jealous because you’re starting to recede.”

 

_I thought I was going to be bald by the age of twenty…_

 

_Look at me, am I thinning?_

 

Hamilton didn’t even deign him with a response. The look said it all. Sighing, the lead detective reached out to turn on his classical station, slamming on the breaks and nearly causing Lass to fly through the windshield when heavy metal blared from his stereo.

 

“Dude, has someone been changing the presets on your radio too?”

 

Lass couldn’t keep a small grin off his face when he heard the mumbled swearwords. And for a second he saw a tall man with salt and pepper hair and piercing blue eyes, muttering the same vindictive words, before the image faded back into the recesses of his mind and the seven dwarves decided his skull was a good place to mine for diamonds.

 

The two of them fell silent for the remainder of the ride, Lass condemning the mining dwarves to hell, and Hamilton doing the same to him. They pulled up a block away from the abandoned warehouse, and moved silently down the street, keeping to the shadows. They climbed the fence in the alley way, and then scaled the fire escape, dropping in through one of the ceiling widows, and sliding along the rafters until they had good view of the teens below.

 

Scanning around quickly, Lass scooted to the edge of the rafters, and grasped one of the long poles holding the ceiling up, shimming down, despite the muffled protests of his partner. Moving forward on the balls of his feet, Lass peered around a stack of crates.

 

“Where’s da money?”

 

“I’m…I’m sorry….Jimmy…”

 

“You lost it!”

 

A silver gun glinted in the dim glare of flashlights. “J…Jimmy…”

 

The familiar sound of a gun cocking rang in Lass’ ears. In slow motion he watched as the teen raised the gun, finger moving…

 

The discharge was loud…so much louder then when you were wearing protective gear…

 

And the teen fell…gun clattering to the concrete floor.

 

_Oh my gosh, you’re a cop…_

 

_First time pulling your weapon?_

 

His hands were shaking.

 

Maybe it was his first time too…

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“That’s four bodies, Carlton!”

 

“I know, Chief.”

 

Four bodies, four kids, dead. Another kid had disappeared. Within the next couple of weeks the number would be five. Did he mention that he was going to kill Spencer? If Spencer was here this case would have probably been solved by now…not that he’d ever admit that out loud.

 

“I don’t want to do this, Carlton.”

 

“I know Chief.”

 

“We’re going to have to call for backup.”

 


	5. Meeting of the Minds

 

He had still been shaking when he filled out the report. He’d pulled the trigger. Shot some kid. It didn’t matter that the teenager had been about to blow someone else away with his own gun. Lass had a sinking suspicion that he’d never shot someone before, even before he could remember. Otherwise his hands wouldn’t be shaking so bad. _Do you really want to be a hero someday?_

 

That kid was in the hospital. Might not make it through the night…

 

_Become a cop._

 

If he’d been a cop, wouldn’t he have fired his gun? Wouldn’t he have pulled it out in the heat of battle…

 

Sitting on the edge of a cot in the overtime room, Lass realized that it really didn’t matter. Apparently no one cared enough to look for him. It was his job to focus on the here and now. Here and now…

 

It was time to go home, stop at a Jamba Juice. There was nothing in the world that a pineapple smoothie couldn’t fix…except maybe killing somebody. Yeah. Killing someone was a pretty big boo-boo.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Henry picked up the mahogany knight from the chess board, rolling it between his hands. Back and forth, back and forth. It had been one of those odd gifts from his son, something random, but heartfelt, given unexpectedly, and clearly without any expectations in return. He’d tried not to show too much enthusiasm at the present, acted duly concerned when Shawn had joked of shoplifting the set, but he’d made sure it was always within reaching distance when his son came over for dinner, something to be pridefully shared over a couple of beers.

 

Smoothing his thumb over the base of the figure, the odd texture caught his attention. He’d never been black, it was the color that Shawn always claimed, so he’d never paid that much mind to the opposing figures. Flipping the piece over he found, carved in Shawn’s childish writing, _BA Baracus._ A small grin pulled at his lips and reaching for one of the pawns, Henry found what he had expected—this one had been dubbed _Dwight_.

 

Suddenly his stomach felt like an empty chasm had taken its place and an anvil had been dropped on his chest. Reaching up to dash away the sudden perspiration at the corner of his eye, Henry moved to place the pieces on the mantle of his fireplace with shaking hands. “Goofball kid, thinks he’s the entire A-Team in one body.”

 

He could remember clearly the time that Shawn had tried to be Howling Mad Murdock and swing from the kitchen light. His mother had threatened to send him away to boarding school when she found Shawn, the light, and half the ceiling on top of her kitchen table. That was when he had started bringing Shawn to work with him…

 

His mother.

 

Henry should probably call her.

 

Maybe she’d know where their son was.

 

If she didn’t…

 

If she didn’t, then he’d know.

 

He’d know that something bad had happened to his son.

 

And he hadn’t been there to stop it.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Everyone in the LAPD had learned quickly not to play poker with Lass. He could tell if someone was lying a million miles away, which meant that the higher ups had immediately found it amusing to organize games between him and wet behind the ears rookies. It had soon become a rite of passage for the newbies—you weren’t really part of the team unless you lost your first paycheck to Henry Lass. A paycheck that he always dropped in the donation box for families of cops who had died in the line of fire. Some voice in the back of his mind refused to let him keep it, something told him that just because he could keep all the money he’d won, didn’t mean that he should.

 

Since no one but the wide-eyed and bushy-tailed rookies would play cards with him, Lass was instead forced to purchase a chess set, to pass away time in the break room. Which was why Hamilton was currently sitting across from him, glaring over the rims of his glasses—Lass’ constant antics tended to rub Hamilton the wrong way, and during today alone he had found his coffee replaced with a smoothie, blue Jell-O where his sandwich had been, and all his files organized by how sexy the perp was—apparently there had been a poll around the office that he hadn’t known about. Plus, Lass’ tie was currently tied around his head and dangling over his nose like some misshapen elephant trunk. But he couldn’t remain too upset, this was the liveliest the kid had been all week since he shot up the drug dealer. Which was probably how he’d gotten conned into a game of chess.

 

“Okay, so I’ll trade your frowny pointy thingy for my horsey.”

 

About to lay into his colleague for his lack of vocabulary, Hamilton was brought up short by the look of discomfort that flashed across the young man’s face.

 

“Headache?”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You aren’t…”

 

“Look, I leased my skull to Thor and allowed him to use my head as an anvil. He just plays with his hammer a lot more than I’d like.”

 

He didn’t mean to snap, but he hated this. Anytime he said or thought something that might trigger his memory, a giant decided to use his brain as a punching bag and he was left reeling. Thankfully Cullen appeared a second later, breaking the tense silence by requesting Hamilton. Letting Hamilton think he was in too much pain to even possibly follow, Lass took off after them the second they weren’t looking, sensing that this was a conversation he wasn’t supposed to hear.

 

“What is it Cullen?”

 

“They found a bike.”

 

“A bike? So what?” Lass cringed. Clearly by the tone he had pushed Hamilton a hair too far today.

 

“A motorbike. On that road that they found Detective Lassie.”

 

“Get to the point, Cullen.”

 

“It looks like it has been there the same amount of time…” Lass’ ears perked. “Belonged to some guy from Santa Barbara.”

 

Hamilton blew a big gust of air from his mouth, a sign that he was dissatisfied. “Alright. I want that report to get lost, go missing, whatever…make sure he doesn’t get wind of it, because he’ll be tracking down information on the bike in no time. Now, Cullen.”

 

“Yes, sir!”

 

Ducking down and skittering sideways behind the desk, Lass watched as Cullen’s feet passed by, and began crawling backwards towards the break room, he had to be back in the chair and nursing his head before Hamilton decided to come looking for him. That, and he should probably take the tie off his head and put it back where it belonged before Hamilton decided to use it as a noose on him…yeah, that was probably a good idea.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

The chief had promised him another week on the case without calling for back up. Unfortunately, his week was up, and no cup of coffee with three creams and four sugars was going to rid him of his Spencer-sized headache. At this point, he would have gladly handed the case off to the psychic, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with some other half-assed cop tramping around his turf and touching his things. No matter what this person thought, they weren’t going to be in charge of the case. He was in charge, no if, ans, or buts about it. Of course, unless the chief decided otherwise, with, which the mood she had been in lately, was a pretty good possibility.

 

“CARLTON!”

 

That would be his name.

 

“O’HARA!”

 

That was his partner’s.

 

“MY OFFICE, NOW!”

 

And that was a really bad sign…

 

The two walked in shoulder to shoulder, O’Hara being smart enough to close the door before they elicited another yell.

 

“You wanted to see us, Chief?”

 

“I gave you one week, one week Carlton, and you are no closer to finding the perp then when you started, am I correct?”

 

“Well, Chief…”

 

“Am I correct?” The words were dangerously low, causing Lassiter to blink and Juliet to cringe like a beaten puppy.

 

“Yes, ma’m…I mean, Chief.”

 

“I’m calling them Carlton.”

 

“Yes…”

 

“And I expect you to be on your best behavior.”

 

“Yes…”

 

“And be nice.”

 

“Now, Chief…”

 

“Out!”

 

He let Juliet out of the office doors first, trying to not make it seem like he was in a hurry to leave, quickly shutting the glass contraption before any other orders could be bellowed his way. Making sure he glared at Buzz as he walked by, wouldn’t want anyone to think something was amiss, he hurried back to his desk and reached for the stress ball that Juliet had bought him last week.

 

It had a face on it and a mop of rainbow yarn hair--the powdered filled ball could be molded into odd shapes, and he had nearly loped McNabb’s head off when the officer was caught playing with it. Not as good as the firing range, the doughy creature was still helpful at calming him down. Though it didn’t seem to be working right now. Squeezing it a little tighter for good measure, Lassiter froze as the eyes suddenly bulged and the thing exploded into a small storm of white powder, leaving his desk a winter wonderland and making him the Abominable Snowman. Great.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“Lass, stop spinning.”

 

“Nope.” With another solid kick the chair twirled and the room became a blur.

 

“Stop…stop…” A deep growl, a sound that Hamilton had been unaware that he could even make before he met Henry Lassie, emitted itself from his throat, and he stuck his foot out, catching it on the chair and causing it to fly backwards, Lassie’s body spilling across the walkway.

 

“Dude…” Lass reached up a hand to rub at his face as he waited for Hamilton’s three heads to stop twirling around themselves. “Next time just say please.”

 

“Get up. And put your tie on. The chief wants to see us…are you wearing jeans?”

 

“Yeah, but not acid wash, those things are…”

 

Hamilton didn’t hear the rest, he was already walking away.

 

“Hey! Hammy, hold your horses! C’mon…I was only kidding about the acid wash! They look great on you!! Honest!” Using the desk to hoist himself up, Lass jumped over the abandoned chair and slid down the hall, taking out Officer Cullen during a skid around the bend, and running into Hamilton’s back as he cleared the office door. “Sorry.”

 

“Ahh, Detective Lassie, nice of you to make it…if I may ask, why is your tie being used to hold up your pants…and why are you wearing jeans?”

 

“Actually, Chief, interesting story, you see, sir, there was this cat…”

 

“Never mind. Forget I asked.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Now. I think that, despite your quirks, Detective, that you’ve proven yourself to be a very valuable member of this team.”

 

A happy dance erupted, a flailing of legs and arms, but Hamilton stopped it with a quick elbow jab to the gut. “ Ow! I mean…thank you, sir.”

 

“Which is why, I think it is time I let you go solo on a case.”

 

A glare from Hamilton was enough to stop his dance in its tracks.

 

“There has been a serial killer, about an hour and a half away from here, kidnapping kids and then dumping their bodies around the town. The chief there has requested help, thinks a fresh pair of eyes may do wonders. That’s why I’m sending you to Santa Barbara.”

 

Santa Barbara. The bike was from Santa Barbara. Nothing could stop the happy dance this time.

 

“But…Chief. To send him away…”

 

“What, afraid I’m gonna hop on a motorcycle and never come back?”

 

Hamilton’s eyes narrowed as he realized what Lass was hinting at.

 

“Maybe.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Gus looked across the table, recognizing the pissed look on Lassiter’s face, and wondered if it had been a bad idea to continue meeting the detectives every Friday at the coffee shop. “What’s wrong with him?” he hissed, causing Juliet to look up from her aimless coffee stirring.

 

“Oh, he’s ticked off because some new hotshot detective from LA is coming in to help us on the serial case.”

 

Lassiter looked up. “What kind of a name is Henry Lassie anyway?”

 

Gus suddenly pictured a two-headed monster, sporting one head that was Henry Spencer’s and one that was Lassiter’s, and cringed in fear. If this detective was anything like the two of them, he was staying far away from him. “A really scary one…”

 

Juliet snorted, and Gus wondered if she’d had the same mental image as him. “Well, we’ll find out soon. We’re supposed to be meeting him at his hotel room in about an hour…you doing anything?”

 

“Well…”

 

“See, the thing is, the chief told Carlton to be nice…”

 

“Now, when am I not nice O’Hara…” Her smoldering blue eyes made him amend his previous statement. “Well, sometimes…”

 

“You think I can make him be nice?” Gus’ eyes widened at the very idea. Until recently Lassiter made him quake in his shoes. He made dogs pee out of fear when he walked by. He made babies cry…

 

“I think it would be nice for this detective to see a truly welcoming face.”

 

“O’Hara!”

 

“Admit it, Carlton. You aren’t going to be nice.”

 

“Well…”

 

“Please, Gus.”

 

It would almost be like hanging out with Shawn again. Something that Henry had made clear the other night was probably not going to ever happen again. After he’d passed out he’d somehow wound up in Shawn’s room, holding Darth Vader and sobbing into a bed that he’d spent many nights on as a kid. Shawn wouldn’t want him to dwell, though. Shawn would want him to move on. Shawn would want him to continue living.

 

“Okay. I’ll go.”

 

And maybe the smile on Juliet’s face was worth him agreeing to go.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Lass couldn’t shake it. That thing that you can only say in French. That word…déjà vu. His head was pounding out the theme song from MacGuyver. Whoever had the brass band up there really needed to knock it off, the pain behind his eyes was getting kind of old. They could at least vary the violence a little. Make his back ache, his knee pop…something. He had desperately wanted to drive down by the beach, as if by going there his entire memory would return—but now he was beginning to think it was just wishful thinking. Beside the feeling, which may have had something to do with the fact that he had dumped a bag of pop rocks in his Coke before he drank it, nothing was jumping out at him.

 

It didn’t really matter. He had a murder to solve. That he could do. He was good with that. Murders and stuff. Looking in the mirror, Lass adjusted his tie. He didn’t want the head detective to think he was a goof off…not at first anyway. Nope, his hair was perfect, tie was straight…er then it had been…shirt…probably should tuck it in, but that seemed like such a fashion faux pas. Just as he was debating whether he should put on a belt or not, a knock sounded at his hotel door.

 

“Coming!”

 

One last quick adjustment to the tie, and Lass slid for the door, opening it and stepping back before he got a good look at anyone so they could get past him and into the tiny room. The tall Irish man began taking in the suite as the other two people moved further into the room and Lass closed the door.

 

“I’m Head Detective Carlton Lassiter.”

 

“Lassie.” He watched as the detective’s back suddenly stiffened and heard a small gasp come from the blonde woman.

 

The detective whipped around, posture defensive. “Spencer?!”

 

Confused, Lass’ nose crinkled. “No. Lassie, Henry Lassie, from the LAPD.”

 

 


	6. Brain Freeze

 

 

Hamilton was fuming. It just wasn’t possible. All of his carefully laid plans, gone to waste, just because some stupid detective in Santa Barbara couldn’t catch a serial killer. That, and because Lass was just a little too curious for his own good and had apparently figured out that things were being kept from him. Cullen swore that he had shredded the file and deleted it from the records, but Hamilton was still sure the officer had something to do with that screw up. The fact that he was about to lose his pet project was coupled with the fact that all of his pens and pencils had been found protruding from the cork ceiling that morning, which, overall, put the detective in an extremely foul mood. Sighing, he stomped from the break room back to his desk, threw himself into the chair, and immediately found himself on the floor.

 

Lass had been trying to convince him to upgrade to a chair with wheels, but the old wooden four legged chair had stayed. Which was probably why he had sawn through two of the legs before he left. Or maybe he had just been ticked off at Hamilton for keeping stuff from him. At this point, either option was viable.

 

Temper flaring again, Hamilton pulled himself off the floor, barked at a rookie to clean up the mess, and caused everyone to scatter with one dark look. Two seconds later he was barging into the chief’s office, look changing from one of anger to concern. “Chief…I just, I can’t help but think…I mean, he’s been getting migraines more and more often…what if something happens? Nobody in Santa Barbara knows what happened to him…”

 

“You think I should call them and tell him he’s suffering from amnesia?”

 

“No…I mean, I’m so worried…I feel like I should be there, just in case something happens. He can be primary on the case…”

 

The chief paused, rubbing at the shiny spot on the back of his head, before nodding. “You’re right, maybe it was a bad idea to send him away. You should leave immediately.”

 

“Thank you, Sir.”

 

Maybe he could save his pet project after all.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“You’re Detective Henry Lassie?” Juliet’s voice broke the tense silence.

 

It was followed by an, “I’m gonna kill you, Shawn!” Though, Lassiter, thinking that the pharmaceutical salesman may regret slaying his best friend later, reached out and restrained him before Gus’ reaching hands clasped around the other man’s throat.

 

“That’s real cute, Spencer. Playing cop.”

 

Reaching in his suit jacket, Lass pulled out his badge and i.d. “I am a cop. And who the hell is Spencer? I’m assuming he must be good looking or else…”

 

The three other occupants tuned him out, instead peering at the picture identification. It said he was Detective Henry Lassie, LAPD. “Umm…could you excuse us, we need to talk…” Juliet pulled both of them into the hallway and down a few doorways, making sure they were well out of earshot.

 

“What is going on?” Lassiter hissed.

 

“Let me go, I’m going to kill him…”

 

“Wait, both of you. When have you ever seen Shawn Spencer wear a tie?”

 

“At a wedding…”

 

“In the court room…”

 

“Well, besides then!”

 

“He wore one when we graduated from eighth grade…but only because his mother threatened to choke him with it.”

 

Juliet rolled her eyes. “What I mean, guys, is I think that Henry Lassie doesn’t know he’s Shawn Spencer.”

 

“You mean one of those psychic spirit thingies possessed him?” Lassiter’s eyes widened. “We’re talking to a dead guy!”

 

“Shh!”

 

Gus chuckled nervously at Lassiter’s theory. Shawn wasn’t psychic…but, still.

 

“Or maybe he has multiple personalities. Next time we go in there he’ll be wearing high heels and…ewww…Ouch!”

 

“Knock it off or I’ll hit you again. Now both of you shut up.” She waited, looking back and forth until she was sure they weren’t going to open their mouths again.

 

“Now, think about it. They found his motorcycle. Maybe he was in some sort of accident…”

 

“And he lost his memory!”

 

“Gus! Not so loud.”

 

“But, wouldn’t he still be psychic?” The Head Detective’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

 

“Umm…”

 

“I knew it! Spencer isn’t psychic!!” He dodged the flying French manicure, causing it to hit Gus instead.

 

“Ouch.”

 

“Sorry. I don’t know, Carlton. Maybe he lost that too.”

 

Lassiter looked like a kid who had just lost his blankie in the grocery store. “There goes not being psychic…” he muttered, looking murderously down the hall towards the room that Henry Lass was residing in. “Okay. Fine. Let’s pretend that Spencer doesn’t remember that he’s Spencer. So now what?”

 

“Well,” Gus started. “From what I understand…you kind of have to play along…otherwise we might create false memories…”

 

“Oh, Good God…”

 

“Carlton!”

 

“What? You actually expect me to play along with this? He is so trying to make us look like a bunch of idiots! I mean, c’mon, he disappears for three months…OWW!”

 

Teeth clenched, Juliet hissed, “You will play nice or I’ll tell the chief about the time…”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Now get back in there.”

 

The three marched back into the room. Lass was on his phone, making a lot of uh-huh noises. “Hammy…”

 

He turned and smiled, holding up one finger and then pulling at his tie. “C’mon…no I’m fine. Yes, I brought my Vicodin…your chair broke? Funny…your pencils…in the ceiling, really?” He rolled his eyes and a small grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Your handcuffs…umm…I think I left them with Cullen…and I left Cullen attached to the door of the woman’s bathroom. What do you mean you’re coming out here?!...The chief?” He heaved a large sigh. “Look, I’m kind of busy…There’s no way you are sharing a room with me! Okay, then pick me up a pineapple smoothie…yeah, I’ll see you in a couple of hours.” Clicking the phone shut and pulling the tie over his head, Lass grinned.

 

“Sorry, overprotective partner. Apparently he’s on his way out.” He threw the tie over the bedside lamp before pulling off his jacket to reveal an Apple Jacks t-shirt, the same t-shirt he’d been wearing the last time Gus saw him. The jacket got tossed over the chair, and Lass threw himself on the bed, bouncing up and down experimentally, causing the springs to protest. “Right, so I don’t think we properly introduced ourselves. I’m Henry Lassie.”

 

Before Carlton could make an ill-timed comment, just realizing that Shawn’s new name used an abbreviation of his, Juliet interrupted. “I’m Detective Juliet O’Hara, this is Carlton Lassiter, and this is our…consultant, Burton Guster.”

 

“It’s Gus for short.” Gus studied his best friend closely. It looked like Shawn. It talked like Shawn. But there was no recognition in his eyes. Nothing. They shook hands, and there was nothing in his touch, no reassuring fist bump. What was it Shawn had said? You couldn’t hide the tint to the windows of the soul? Shawn honestly didn’t recognize him…and for a second, a dragon reared up in Gus’ gut, swallowing his insides and burning his eyes. His best friend might as well be dead, because he may never really know him again.

 

“Good. I go by Lass. Henry just gives me the heebie-jeebies.”

 

“I wonder why,” Lassiter muttered. “He gives everyone the heebie-jeebies, ompfh.” Juliet’s elbow was not very well padded, and had made solid contact with his spleen. “I mean, Lass is a wonderful name…”

 

“Right…so, are there any good places to pick up a pineapple smoothie around here?”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“Pick up, pick up, pick up…”

 

“Gus?”

 

“Mr. Spencer!” The shrill shout caused Henry to pull the phone back from his ear. Waiting a few seconds to make sure he still had his hearing, he raised the phone warily.

 

“Is something, wrong, Gus?”

 

“Wrong…well…sort of…”

 

Henry recognized that note of panic. It was a note that Gus reached only when something, having to do with Shawn, had exploded in his face. And if it had to do with Shawn…Henry dropped heavily into the kitchen chair. If Gus was panicking about Shawn, then he was still alive. “What did Shawn do?”

 

“How did you…never mind…it isn’t Shawn exactly.”

 

“What do you mean, it isn’t Shawn exactly?”

 

“Well…umm…”

 

Henry’s grip tightened on the phone. “Spit it out, Gus.”

 

“Umm…you see…well…”

 

“Gus!”

 

“Long story short, Shawnthinkshe’sadetectivefortheLAPDandthathisnameisHenryLassie.”

 

“Say that again, slower this time.”

 

“Shawn thinks he’s a detective for the LAPD and that his name is Henry Lassie.”

 

The cordless phone clattered to the floor, batteries spilling lifeless on the ground and rolling across the tiled floor. Of all the words that he had used to describe Shawn in his life, LAPD detective was never a part of them.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Around the same time that Gus was trying desperately to redial Henry Spencer, Juliet O’Hara was trying to explain the entire situation to Chief Karen Vick. “No…I’m not kidding. Henry Lassie is Shawn Spencer…No, I don’t think it’s a joke…” Glancing behind her to make sure that Carlton was keeping Shawn well out of hearing range she whispered, “I think he must have had a head trauma of some sort…well, no, I didn’t ask him…And, apparently his partner is on his way.” Spying both men heading over, Juliet quickly made her excuses, shutting the phone before the chief’s protests could be heard.

 

“Hey guys…”

 

“O’Hara.”

 

“So, are we going in or not?” Lass gestured at the coffee shop. “I mean, I haven’t had my fix all day, and mister grouchy pants really looks he could use his. Let me guess…three creams, four sugars.”

 

Lassiter’s gaze narrowed and Lass’s hand went to his head, eyes squeezing shut as he pulled out an orange prescription bottle. He dry swallowed the triangular pill, and took a deep, albeit shaking, breath. “Sorry…I had an accident, a few months ago…I get sudden migraines…”

 

“No…” Juliet said quietly. “Let’s go sit down.” They made their way into the coffee shop and chose a corner near the back exit, where Lassiter could keep an eye on the entire store and where Gus would see him when he came back from the “bathroom”.

 

“Not to pry,” the blonde detective started. “But…”

 

Lass lifted his eyes from the table. “I’m not sure. Woke up in a hospital in LA. Only name I could remember was Henry Lassie and I was positive I was a cop…I was hanging out with Hammy and solved a murder in five minutes…shot a couple of beer bottles, and bam, I was a detective. Hammy’s been overprotective lately, I think because the Vicodin hasn’t been working too well, but, what can you do? So, about this case…”

 

“We’ll get you all the files tomorrow, after your partner arrives…Carlton?”

 

“I’m just going to grab a couple of drinks. You want the usual?”

 

“Sure, thanks.”

 

The entire way up to the counter Carlton Lassiter muttered murderous comments about tie-wearing psychics, and hoped that whatever he had done that was so horrible in his past life, that its karma didn’t continue spilling over into the next.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Hamilton pressed a little harder on the gas, cursing jean-wearing detectives as he caught another glance of the hood of his undercover car. The beige vehicle was now blue and covered in flames, sporting shiny spoilers and a new grill. And his police siren now played to the tune of “Do You Know the Muffin Man” and flashed in time with the notes. How the hell the man had pulled that off, Hamilton had no idea.

 

He had to admit…maybe he had deserved the chair…and the pencils, but, his car…that was pushing it…

 

Of course, if Lass really knew what he was doing…

 

Hamilton knew that Lass didn’t have many pills left, and would need to refill his prescription. He needed to get there before Lass could do that himself. He needed to refill that bottle with the pills in his jacket pocket, before Lass found out that none of his refills had actually been used. Because if Lass found that out, it wouldn’t be long before he figured out what he was really taking…and then, Hamilton would lose Henry Lassie forever.

 

 


	7. Brain Fart

 

Henry stood, staring down at the broken pieces of what had once been his kitchen phone. It didn’t look like it was ever going to work again, and Henry could very well just add it to the junk pile in the garage that he had labeled “Broken by Shawn.” The pile had already taken over the back wall, and Henry was pretty sure that he soon was probably going to just have to either build another separate shed, or surrender his garage to the monster. Of course, if there was any shed building going on, you could bet that Shawn was going to be doing it. Especially if he was posing as a cop for the LAPD—if he didn’t get his ass thrown in jail for life first.

 

He jumped suddenly when his butt began vibrating, having forgotten that his cell was in his back pocket. Seeing Gus’ number on the screen, he flipped it open and greeted the frantic man with, “What the hell are you talking about? And no more stuttering.”

 

“We think Shawn was in some sort of accident and lost his memory.”

 

Henry’s heart plummeted like the Tower of Terror. Shawn’s mind was everything…and then the irony hit him. It figured the kid would break that too—maybe it belonged in the back of his garage with all the other stuff.

 

“Mr…Mr. Spencer? Are you okay…”

 

Sitting down heavily at the kitchen table, Henry released a large sigh, signaling to Gus that he was alive, and stopping the other man from hanging up and calling 911. “So what does Shawn getting hurt again have to do with him being a cop?”

 

“Well…from what we can gather, he thinks he’s Henry Lassie, detective at the LAPD…apparently he must be good if they sent him to solve a serial…”

 

A second wave of relief flooded through Henry. The kid could still use his brain, he wasn’t hurt too badly… “Did you say Henry?”

 

“Yeah…you know when I first heard of the name I thought the detective was going to be a j…never mind.”

 

Henry let the comment slide, knowing that Gus was probably totally worked up on the other end of the phone. “I can’t believe he used my name.”

 

“Well...he’s going by Lassie, I think. Lass. Something like that.”

 

“Are you sure he lost his memory?”

 

There was a pause and then a quietly strangled, “Positive.” They both sat in silence for a minute, neither sure of what to say to the other. “His partner is coming in. He’ll be here in a couple of hours.”

 

“Then I think his partner is going to have some explaining to do. Why don’t you invite them to dinner, Gus? We can all go out. On me.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

They’d spent much longer in the coffee shop then any of them had intended, but as usual, Shawn somehow managed to make all of their personalities mesh, and they’d swapped stories, learning more about Lassiter in three hours than anyone had ever learned before. Which wasn’t saying much, but still…

 

Suddenly a muffled version of, “I’m a Barbie Girl,” rang out in the nearly empty shop, causing Lass to jump up and bounce around on one leg as he attempted to fish his phone out of his pocket. “Hey, Hammy…slow down…I’m fine…well of course my hotel room is empty, I’m not there.” He sat back down, rolling his eyes. “You refilled my prescription? Oh…We’re at the Jamba Juice, it’s only two blocks away, why don’t you come down, meet everyone…I know that it’s almost dinner time…I’m hanging up now.” He snapped the phone shut with an audible click, unsurprised when it rang a moment later. Flipping it open, he set it to silent, fully expecting Hamilton to come barging into the coffee shop within the next three and a half minutes.

 

“About dinner,” Gus started, “I was going over a…colleague’s house for dinner, and I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if the two of you came over, if you don’t have any other plans that is…”

 

“Oh, which colleague is that?” Lassiter’s tone clearly let on to his suspicion.

 

“Henry Spencer.”

 

Juliet bit her lip, and Lassiter muttered under his breath, the only clear word being, “Spencer.” _Get off my lap._

 

“I’m not in your lap, Carly.”

 

Lass didn’t notice the strange looks he garnered, too busy focusing on not throwing up, and pushing down the frustration at the clear memory block, if he could only push a little harder, get past the pain… “Henry Lassie!”

 

God, that man had the worst timing.

 

“Are you okay…your hands are shaking.”

 

Thank you, Detective Obvious.

 

“When was the last time you took the Vicodin?”

 

“Hammy, shut up before I fill your glove box and brief case with tampons.”

 

Gus shuddered and Juliet looked at him questioningly. Little did she know that Shawn had done that exact thing when Gus had taken the girl he liked out to dinner junior year of high school. The girl had opened the glove compartment and tampons flowed like the river Styx. And any chance at a relationship Gus had died then and there…Even as Gus sat there reminiscing, he kept his gaze locked on the new detective, watching as the small orange prescription bottle was pressed into his best friend’s hand, and how the other man obediently popped the lid, dry swallowing one of the tiny pills.

 

Lass took the pills that were offered, knowing that otherwise Hamilton would be on his case the entire night, like a jealous lover. At least now the man would calm down and back off, as long as he pretended that the pain had eased, even though it never did, and that his mind hadn’t just entered a fog. Slipping the pills into his pocket, Lass caught Gus’ eyes, and saw the concern, and something else…he was looking at Hamilton with suspicion.

 

“Hey, Hammy, this is Juliet, Carly, and Gus, guys, this is Hammy. Gus was kind enough to invite us to dinner tonight.”

 

“Well, I’m not…”

 

“And I accepted.” Ignoring Hamilton’s burning eyes, and the pounding in his own head, Lass smiled. “Not to be a pain guys, but I am kind of hungry…”

 

Lassiter cleared his throat and stood, reaching out to shake both Lass and Hamilton’s hands in his professional manner. “Yes, well, O’Hara and I should be going. We’ll see you tomorrow down at the station. Goodnight, Guster, Hamilton, Sp…Lassie.” Hamilton’s smoldering gaze turned to Lassiter, clearly this detective, with the strong Irish hairline, knew more than he was letting on.

 

Lass hugged Juliet goodbye, and grabbed Hamilton’s arm. “C’moooooonnnnnnn…” he whined. “Let’s gooooooo…”

 

Gus bit his lip, trying not to grin as the three of them headed out to his car, thanking all the powers above that for once, Shawn was annoying someone else.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Lass had claimed shotgun before Hamilton could even get his mouth open, and had spent nearly the entire ride flipping furiously through the radio stations, and changing all of Gus’ presets, as well as pocketing some of the spare change. It felt good to have Shawn in the passenger seat again, even if Shawn himself didn’t realize it, and Gus had forgotten how used he had been to Shawn’s antics, Hamilton’s murderous comments reminded Gus of what had been missing these past few months.

 

“Dude, Hammy, we’ve got to name your car something sweet now that it got a new paint job!” There was no answer. “Oh, come on, you have to admit that the flames are totally sweet…”

 

“That’s not the term that I would use.”

 

“Fine. They’re awesome.”

 

“That’s not what I was thinking either.”

 

“Aww, c’mon, Gus agrees with me. Blue car with flames, totally dope.”

 

“Yeah,” a small, remorseful grin flitted across his face, caught by Hamilton’s eyes in the glare of passing headlights. “Totally dope.” He cleared his throat. “A friend of mine once did that to my car. At the time I could have killed him, but he had a point, it was great for picking up girls.”

 

“See, I told you so!”

 

Hamilton groaned. The last thing he needed was for this idiot to be egging his idiot on. Before anyone else could increase the detective’s irritation, they pulled up in front of a cream and red trimmed house right by the beach, Gus cutting the engine mid rumble. “Here we are.”

 

Looking over into the passenger seat, he saw that Shawn had frozen. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah…I just have an overwhelming feeling of dread…”

 

“Hey, trust me, I think Mr. Spencer will like you. A lot. Though you’re probably not quite what he’s expecting.”

 

Hamilton decided that whatever the Irish detective knew, that this guy was in on as well. And so was this Mr. Spencer, or whoever’s house they were at. He was going to have to be very, very, careful.

 

Lass smiled suddenly, back to his bouncy self, and threw open the door, slamming it hard behind him and bounding up the walkway to the porch. Hamilton followed at a more plodding pace, and Gus slid out behind them, noticing the orange pill container on the empty passenger seat, and pocketing it to take a better look at later.

 

Gus opened the front door, knowing that Henry had left it unlocked in anticipation. His mouth began to water when his Super Smeller noticed what was cooking---ribs…and corn…and was that….

 

“I smell pineapple…” Lass glanced around the room, taking in all the dead fish. “Smells like pineapple upside down cake.”

 

“That’s because it is.” Lass’ spine stiffened, almost as if he was subconsciously expecting caustic words to follow…

 

“It smells great, Mr. Spencer.”

 

“Why, thank you, Gus. I’m Henry Spencer.” The ex-cop took in everything at once, immediately disliking Hamilton, and noting that his son looked thinner then when he had last seen him, though his sense of style hadn’t changed at all.

 

“I’m Henry Lassie and this is my partner, Hammy.” Nor had his ability to give ridiculous nicknames. Familiar green eyes met his and a well known hand clasped his to shake, but Henry, who had taught Shawn to see when people were lying, who could tell when his son was hiding something, whether it was Gus in the closet or a girl in the backseat, saw no recognition in those eyes, nothing that said the little boy he’d raised was still there. It was true…he’d lost his son. He was alive…and yet he wasn’t.

 

Henry realized suddenly that he had held Shawn’s hand a little too long, stared a little too hard, and his eyes stung just a little too much. “I’ve got to go flip the ribs,” he muttered. “Make yourself at home.”

 

“I’ll go help him,” Gus said, dropping his suit jacket over an empty chair and disappearing into the kitchen.

 

That left Hamilton and Lassie staring at each other, and Lassie’s glare let Hamilton know that the other man was still pissed at him and for all he knew, his closet would be filled with only dresses the next time he opened it. Unsure how to fix this, unsure of how much Lassie knew and what would be revealing too much, Hamilton opened his mouth and then snapped it shut with an audible clack.

 

Lassie turned on his heel suddenly, moving down the hall and towards the back of the house. Sighing, and hoping to keep the other man out of trouble, Hamilton followed.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“If it makes you feel any better…he makes a good cop.”

 

Henry was leaning forward over the sink, staring out the window into the pitch black night. “Henry Lassie is a good cop.” Henry sighed and reached for the dishtowel. “I never wanted a good cop, Gus.” He threw the towel harshly against the window, watching it flop harmlessly in the sink. “No matter what he thought…I wanted a safe, and happy son. I wanted him to feel like his life was worth something. I wanted to give him everything I could…the only thing I could…I never wanted a Henry Lassie, Gus. I just wanted a Shawn, a Shawn Spencer. I just want my son…”

 

And Gus understood. Shawn was so close…and yet so far away…

 

Reaching out, Gus placed a conciliatory hand on Henry’s shoulder, before turning and slowly leaving the kitchen, returning to the room where he had left the other two men.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“Lass…Lass…you can’t just barge in…Lass…”

 

“They said to make ourselves at home. I’ll tell them I was looking for the bathroom.”

 

He burst into one of the rooms and stopped, flicking on the light switch. He quickly glanced around the room, ignoring when he heard Hammy come in behind him, and took a step forward. There was a picture, on the bedside table, of a young boy, next to what looked like a much younger Henry Spencer and a woman. Another held what looked to be a younger version of Gus and the same boy. A Tears for Fears poster hung on one wall, a cardboard standup of B.A. Baracus stood in the corner. Pineapple lights were strung from the headboard, to the ceiling and then to the closet, and an abandoned Atari stuck half-way out from under the bed. A stuffed ostrich sat on top of a tennis ball on the quilt…

 

_The thing could have died and the zoo would have made me pay for it. I don’t even know what an ostrich costs._

 

And an opened envelope with the word CONGRATULATiONS…

 

_Little i’s little i’s, there’s only one person who makes little i’s…_

 

“Lass…Lass…”

 

The room was spinning, he was on his knees…

 

_Get over yourself, kid._

 

And suddenly the ocean was across the street anymore, it was around him, dragging him under…

 

 

 

*~~*

 

Hamilton knew he should have double dosed him. Now he had to figure out how to get the unconscious man off the bedroom floor and back out into the living room without creating overt amounts of suspicion. Life was never easy with Henry Lassie around. He managed to get into ridiculous scrapes at the worst opportune moments…but that didn’t mean he didn’t need him. Oh, no. Henry Lassie was his now, and if he had any say in it, it would stay that way…if only he could get him off the floor…

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Soft voices filtered into his brain, and he relaxed at the familiarity of the sounds. They were safe voices, warm voices…Eyes blinking open to an unfamiliar ceiling in an unfamiliar room banished those thoughts however, and he sat straight up, regretting it when his migraine became instantly twenty times worse, causing him to collapse backwards, his stomach rolling like a dingy in a sea storm. “Easy, kiddo. You gave everyone quite a scare. Your partner here explained that you get bad migraines…ever since, your accident?”

 

“Yeah…” he swallowed, mouth and throat dry, forcing back the acid that was burning in his esophagus and looking for release. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t worry about it. Your friend at least enjoyed a nice dinner. Said you like pineapple, so I cut some cake to send back with you.”

 

Vaguely Lass recalled the string of pineapple lights. “Your son…he liked pineapple too?”

 

“Yeah…Shawn loved pineapple.”

 

Lass knew that look. The one of total loss. He saw it every morning when he looked in the mirror. “I’m sorry.” He turned towards Gus. “For both of you. Losing a son, or a friend…Thank you, for your hospitality. Hopefully next time we get together, I’ll be able to stay awake.” He grinned sheepishly.

 

“Maybe we should go…” Hamilton’s eyes were shrouded, and Gus wondered just what was going through the Los Angles detective’s head.

 

“Sure. Goodnight, Mr. Spencer. I’ll call you, later.”

 

Lass pulled himself off the couch, much slower this time, before giving into desire and hugging Henry Spencer. “Thank you.”

 

Twenty minutes later a much more subdued Henry Lassie stepped from Gus’ car, clearly still in pain as his stumbled towards the hotel. “Goodnight, Detective Hamilton. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

It wasn’t until Gus got home that he realized he still had the orange prescription bottle. Standing in his kitchen, Gus studied the white label. Vicodin. Self-explanatory. Clearly Shawn was getting constant migraines. But still…the way Hamilton had been acting…

 

Tired and overwhelmed, Gus stuck the bottle on his windowsill, deciding the feeling was just because he was upset over the fact that he may have lost his best friend permanently to a cop from the LAPD. Hazarding one last glance at the seemingly innocuous prescription, Gus sighed, and figured he’d give it back to Henry Lassie tomorrow, but for now, a dreamless night’s sleep was in order. Shutting out the light, the young man decided that maybe it was time to leave Shawn Spencer behind him and work on getting to know Henry Lassie…because, after all, that was all they had left.

 

 


	8. Mind Melt

 

Head Detective Carlton Lassiter was still certain that Spencer was trying to pull a fast one. And he was going to catch him, and then murder him… maybe maim him… or at least prevent him from ever reproducing…

 

But then again, Shawn Spencer wouldn’t ever purposely cause that sad look in O’Hara’s eyes. Shawn Spencer wouldn’t leave his best friend out of the loop for this long, wouldn’t have let him think he was dead. Shawn Spencer would not willingly cause Henry Spencer that much pain, no matter how many fights they had. And though Shawn Spencer may have pulled something like this just to annoy the head detective…he would have had a punch line by now, would have cracked a smile, would have done something, anything…and Shawn Spencer wouldn’t have that hollow look in his eyes.

 

So Carlton Lassiter had gone to the department psychologist…just in case Spencer wasn’t faking, and told the shrink what exactly was going on. He’d been hoping that the man would tell him to go ahead and tell Spencer who he was, to not further the crazy delusion. At least then they could quit the crazy charade. Besides, Carlton didn’t like Henry Lassie. Not that he liked Shawn Spencer, but Henry Lassie came with a Hamilton, and Hamilton gave Carlton a really bad feeling.

 

But the psychologist had told him no. That normally, he would have gladly let Lassiter burst the man’s bubble. But the psychologist hadn’t worked with an amnesiac with psychic abilities before. And, much to Lassiter’s dismay, the psychologist feared that telling Spencer who he was, might make the “paranormalevelence” go haywire. And the last thing that Lassiter wanted was Spencer possessed by the spirit of Elvis. He could just imagine how many of his things would get broken then.

 

Which was why he had gone and Spencer-proofed his car, since the chief wanted him to act like a chauffer to the two LAPD detectives. That meant all sharp and/or breakable objects were removed from the car. His lock box with the extra weapons were moved from the back seat to the trunk—but that was more because he didn’t trust Hamilton back there with them—he’d gotten a call from Henry Spencer after everyone had left his house the night before, and in that man’s opinion, Hamilton was a worthless piece of, well, that last word he didn’t need to think about.

 

Currently, Juliet was in the Jamba Juice, grabbing three coffees (one with three creams and four sugars), a pineapple smoothie, three pineapple pastries, and a variety of danishes, while Lassiter waited in the car, scoping out the street, and occasionally glancing in the rearview mirror at the stack of files. Vick didn’t want Spencer down at the station, afraid that it might trigger his, apparently latent, psychic abilities and cause more problems then it would solve. And so, he had taken the paper cuts a la cart, stacking them into the backseat, already imaging the size of the headache that he was going to get from the hyperactive man today. Clearly, the man hadn’t hit his head hard enough to alter his personality…

 

Juliet was knocking on the window, so she could pass him the cardboard cup holder and brown paper bag, which he plopped on her seat, making her sigh and roll her eyes, before passing them back to him so she could sit down. His tension was revealed in the whitening of his knuckles as he gripped the stick shift and put the car into drive, making Juliet smile. “At least some things never change…”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snapped.

 

“Shawn Spencer will always get a rise out of you.”

 

Lassiter’s upper lip curled back in a snarl, before he relaxed, turning the corner and pulling into the hotel parking lot. “You better figure out how you’re carrying all that and the files up by yourself,” he grinned at her, plucking his own coffee from the cardboard container. “See you inside.”

 

Taking off before O’Hara could muster up a reasonable protest, Lassiter took the stairs two at a time—figuring O’Hara should reach the floor about the same time as him if she took the elevator.

 

Reaching the hallway Lassiter stopped dead, causing his coffee to splash over his tie, leaving him to absentmindedly mop at it as he listened to the raised voices.

 

“Just back off, Hamilton!”

 

“Knock it off, Lassie! I’m lead detective, you do what I tell you, when I tell you, without me, you’re nothing!”

 

“That’s not true! I saw your record before I came, Hammy. You hadn’t solved a decent case in a year and a half before I came, not since you got your last partner killed!”

 

“He got caught in the crossfire, damn bastards shot him…”

 

“You shot him! I looked at the pictures, Hamilton. The exit hole was the front, the entrance came from behind him—and you had his back, didn’t you…”

 

Lassiter dropped the coffee, leaving it to drop in slow motion to the floor as he ran for the door, praying he’d get there before Spencer got himself killed…only to get clocked with the door when it was flung open, snapping his nose out of place and causing red-hot blood to flow, as Spencer stormed from the room. “Ahh…” His hand flew up, attempting to stem the geyser, causing the other man to gasp in sympathy.

 

“Oh…Carly, I’m so sorry…Dude, it’s a good thing your tie was already red…”

 

Frustration clearly building on Lassiter’s face, Lass stepped backwards, hands held out as he tried to appease the taller man. They were both distracted at the ding of the arriving elevator and the high pitched squeal that followed.

 

“Hey, Jules…funny story…” Lass pulled off his own tie, pressing it against Lassiter’s face, and half-smothering the other man in an attempt to keep his mouth shut.

 

Grinning cheekily while balancing coffee and pastries on top of the stack of files, Juliet giggled. “That’s what happens when you don’t help your partner carry all the crap from the car.” She moved towards the room and gasped. “Oh my gosh…what happened in here…”

 

Lassiter peered around the door, removing Lassie’s tie from his nose. The entire room was in shambles, apparently a pillow fight had proceeded the shouting match—either that or there were dead chickens hidden somewhere in the room. Lassiter firmly hoped it was the former. Hamilton stepped forward, holding a white bath towel wrapped around ice from the little black bucket on the dresser.

 

“Put it on the back of your neck, it’ll slow the bleeding.”

 

Lassiter wondered if he put a set of knuckles on that guy’s nose if it would relieve his building tension headache. Instead he just accepted the homemade ice pack with a grunt that he hoped sounded somewhat grateful, before gesturing for O’Hara to drop the files on the desk. Henry Lassie dove for the files, moving the drinks and pastries, reaching in the bag to retrieve his and taking a large gulp of his smoothie while trying to simultaneously wrestle the first file open.

 

And then Lassiter had the surprise of his life. The man who he had never seen sit still for more than a whole thirty seconds in the entire time he’d known him, spent the next hour and a half quietly studying the files, comparing notes, and asking educated questions about the crime scenes, trying to determine what the Santa Barbara detectives had already found.

 

“Do the kidnappings occur during any specific time of the day...do they occur earlier or later in the month…have you guys determined an area in which they may be operating from…” The entire time Hamilton sat quietly in the background, as O’Hara and Lassiter answered the questions and swapped ideas.

 

And suddenly Lass leaned forward over a crime scene photo, eyes narrowing. “There.”

 

Carlton leaned over his shoulder, blood flow having finally stopped. “What?”

 

“It’s a gold cap to a tooth.”

 

“So?”

 

Lass’ eyes crinkled, forehead creasing with either concentration or pain, and Hamilton jumped up from his perch on the bed. “You didn’t take your prescription…”

 

“Back of, Hamilton.” There was a hard edge to his voice that Lassiter had never heard before and that caused Juliet to step back.

 

“The doctor said…”

 

Lass whirled, eyes flashing with anger that Shawn Spencer had never had. “I said, back off.” He closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, willing the pain back, at the same time trying to figure out while the gold cap was so…

 

“I’m just worried about you…”

 

Lass ignored him, attempting to push his mind back, lifting his fingers to his temples in concentration. _Gold teeth…flash of a gun…_

 

“You need to…”

 

And it was gone. He was so going to dye all of that man’s clothes hot pink.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Gus had taken it upon himself to do a little research. And so after his morning drug run, he had sat in the empty Psych office, furiously typing away on his computer, trying to find everything he could on Detective Hamilton of the LAPD.

 

Apparently the man had been a good detective, one of the best. He and his partner had been together for almost fifteen years, and then, a year and a half ago, Hamilton’s partner had died, apparently from opposing fire. Hamilton’s record had gone downhill from there. He’d solved no cases until his new partner, Henry Lassie had appeared out of nowhere a few months ago, only a couple of weeks after Shawn had disappeared. And suddenly Hamilton had a perfect record. Still…something seemed off about his partner’s death…

 

Gus was distracted when his phone rang, Henry Spencer’s name flashing across the caller i.d. “Hello.”

 

“Hey, Gus.”

 

“Mr. Spencer.”

 

“Gus, can you do a favor for me?”

 

“That depends…”

 

“I want you to keep an eye on Shawn. I already gave Detective Lassiter a heads up—but I don’t like that Hamilton…I couldn’t put my finger on it, but he feels like a perp.” Perp wasn’t the exact word that Gus would use, but he understood what the older man meant.

 

“Sure thing, Mr. Spencer.” He closed his laptop, effectively putting it to sleep, and reached for his briefcase. “I was just about to call the detective, see if they all wanted to meet somewhere for dinner or something…” Besides, he still needed to give that prescription bottle back.

 

Gus’ first surprise that night was when he entered the restaurant and discovered that the head detective was sporting two black eyes—apparently the major side effect of breaking your nose. Lass, meanwhile, had pulled his chair between the two Santa Barbara detectives, and was using his straw to send off a round of spitballs at Hamilton’s head, nearly as fast as a semi-automatic machine gun, and with the same sound effects. As soon as he was out of his own straw paper he reached for Lassiter’s, and managed to escape unscathed, Gus’ second surprise of the night.

 

Lass ordered Sweet and Sour, just so he could eat the pineapple chunks that were mixed in, throwing the peppers at Hamilton whenever he looked away. Thankfully, Lass had good hand eye coordination, or Gus would have been on the receiving end of the peppers quite a few times. Nobody seemed to want to talk to anyone else, and everyone was shooting suspicious glares at each other across the table. Finally, Juliet brought it upon herself to break the proverbial ice.

 

“So, Gus, you recording Duo’s tonight?”

 

“Aww…man, Hammy…you should go on. You could sing ‘I’m Too Sexy’. You’ll definitely get voted off then. We can make Carly here your partner.”

 

“Lass…”

 

He totally ignored the warning tone in his partner’s voice and plowed right on. “Dude, can you imagine that British judge in a robe…ughh...”

 

_I’m pretty sure he’s going commando under there._

 

“And that girl is stoned all the time…”

 

_Look at me._

 

Hamilton recognized the look in Lass’ eyes. He was close to inadvertently stumbling on a memory… “I can tell your head hurts, you need to take your prescription.”

 

“No.”

 

_Now we have to put the moonwalk into “Shout” and hope the judges don’t dock us for it…_

 

“Take the medication. Do you want a relapse?”

 

Hamilton had stood and was walking around the table, reaching into Lass’ jacket, where he knew the pills would be. Lass smacked his hand away, pushing a little harder.

 

_Lassie._

 

_Spencer?_

 

_No, Lassie, Henry Lassie…_

 

_Spencer…Henry…_

 

_Shawn…_

 

“Take the damn pills.” Hamilton hissed, pulling out the nearly empty orange container, identical to the one in Gus’ pocket.

 

“I think you need to calm down,” Lassiter’s tone was that of a man trying to talk someone off a bridge. Juliet had pushed her chair back, hand subconsciously drifting down to her hip.

 

Hamilton popped the top on the container, thrusting it forward. “Take them.”

 

“No. You’ve been lying to me Hammy…”

 

“You’re tired, in pain, and confused, you’ll feel better once you take your medication.”

 

“Why are you being so insistent?” Lassiter’s voice was dangerously low now.

 

“I DON’T WANT THE GODDAMNED PILLS!” His hand lashed out, smacking the open container, sending the little tablets flying across the restaurant as a deadly hush fell over the entire area.

 

Gus stared at the lonely pill in his Moo Goo Gai Pan. “This isn’t Vicodin…”

 

Hamilton froze, watching as the pharmaceutical salesman carefully picked up the tiny pill between thumb and forefinger.

 

“What do you mean?” Lass’ voice was quiet.

 

“This is Propranolol…it’s a drug used to treat cardiovascular disease…but…recently it has been tested for use…as a memory suppressant.”

 

 


	9. Miraculous Memory

 

 

Lass wasn’t quite sure how he’d ended up sitting on a bench in the Santa Barbara police department, hands cuffed and knuckles bloody. To his left sat Gus, hands similarly cuffed, his collared shirt and tie both marred by some mix of Moo Goo Gai Pan, Lo Mein, Chicken Fried Rice, and, yep…that was definitely some of his Sweet and Sour…to his right were the two Santa Barbara Detectives. Lassiter’s right eye was now swollen shut, his left still sporting the purple bruise. In turn, his knuckles were also bleeding, and the entire left sleeve of his shirt was missing, probably currently being swept up by the underpaid college student who had been waiting on them. Somehow, Juliet had managed to come out relatively unscathed. Her hair was still perfectly pulled back, skirt straight, shirt tucked in…of course, then again, she had been the one wielding the gun…

 

Thinking back, the last thing he could clearly remember was Gus speaking, and next thing he knew, his fist had flown. Unfortunately, Hamilton had ducked, meaning that Carlton had gotten sucker-punched in the eye—which was probably why it was swollen shut. Lass slid a little closer to Gus on the bench, hoping the taller man wouldn’t quite remember who had decked him in the wild scuffle. At least that also explained why Lass’ knuckles were bleeding.

 

About the same time, Gus dove across the table, the reasoning behind that was still somewhat unclear, but he thought he had heard the other man scream, “Watch out for the gun!”, so maybe Hamilton had been reaching for his weapon…And that would explain why there was an entire Chinese buffet spread across the front his neighbor’s shirt…Sadly, Gus had missed, and in an attempt to stop his wild sliding before he dropped off the edge of the table, he’d reached for the only thing he could…which explained why Lassiter was currently down one shirt sleeve. And why Gus was attempting to inch away from the other handcuffed man…Lass had to admit, slide-tackling the man was much worse then socking him…okay, so maybe both of them were going to be in deep shit when the detective got his cuffs off…

 

And so how had Jules made it out unscathed?

 

Lassiter had stood, shoving Gus sideways, smacking his hand off the underside of the table…that explained the head detective’s bloody knuckles…ahh, that was right. Hamilton had backed up, only to get smacked on the back of the head with Juliet’s handgun. It hadn’t been hard enough to do much more then make him turn, but a stiletto to the groin remedied that, and while he was down, she’d snapped cuffs on him.

 

And then they’d all gotten arrested.

 

For assaulting an officer.

 

Disturbing the peace.

 

And indecent exposure of something as ugly as Head Detective Lassiter’s face.

 

Okay, so Lass had made that last charge up, but it had definitely been worth the smile on Jules face. Though, he should have seen if Gus would switch seats with him before he opened his mouth. Now his ribs were bruised too.

 

They’d had to separate all of them from Hamilton. At least…after Lassiter had head-butted the man.

 

“So…umm…who wants to go out for dessert afterwards?”

 

The growl from his right quickly nixed that idea.

 

Lass sighed and squirmed. His leg jiggled. Then it bounced. Fingers tapped a rhythm, head thrust…

 

“You’re rocking the bench.” The words came through clenched teeth, and Lass heard Jules snort.

 

“Sorry…” If only the stupid office door would open…

 

If the chief would just call them into talk…

 

_Can I talk to you in your office, KKarlton?_

 

He really had to pee.

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Henry couldn’t decide. Maybe he should get the one with the stripes.

 

Though the grey one was cute…

 

But that one had lots of different colors…

 

Then again, whatever one he got, it should probably be a boy.

 

A white one would probably just get dirty, at least knowing his son…

 

“Can I help you, sir?”

 

“Umm…yeah. I need a little boy cat.”

 

He watched as the employee tried not to grin. “And all the stuff that goes with it.”

 

“Are there any characteristics, other than the cat being a boy, that you are looking for?”

 

“Yeah…do you have any cats that like a good snuggle?”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

The giant of all giants came to retrieve them.

 

“I’m really sorry, guys…”

 

“Shut up, McNabb.”

 

“Dude, Carly, back off Nabby, Buzz is only doing his job.”

 

The use of the officer’s first name garnered looks from his new friends, but he shook the feeling off and stood. “So, can I go first?”

 

“Sure, Sh…Detective Lassie.”

 

“I meant to the bathroom…I really gotta go…”

 

Buzz’s face contorted into one of slight panic as he glanced back to the chief’s office. “But the…the chief…”

 

“Just take him to the bathroom,” Lassiter muttered. “I’ll go in first. I can show myself in.”

 

“O…Okay, if you’re sure.”

 

Lass started bouncing and shifting. “I gotta pee…”

 

“Now, McNabb…before he goes all over the bench.”

 

Lass continued his jig all the way down the hall, Lassiter waiting until they turned the corner before standing to face his impending doom.

 

He closed the door softly behind him, but that didn’t stop the sharpness of the, “Where’s McNabb?”

 

“Spencer had to pee.”

 

Karen whirled in her chair. “And, do you want to explain to me why my Head Detective was caught brawling in a four star restaurant in the middle of Santa Barbara.” Her voice was too quiet to be of any comfort.

 

Lassiter shifted slightly where he stood. As he remembered it, he’d been the one getting beat up on…

 

The chief suddenly seemed to take in his appearance and a small grin split her lips. “Where’s the other half of your shirt?”

 

“You’d have to ask Guster that.”

 

Her eyes narrowed. “What happened, Carlton? Now.”

 

“Just in the restaurant?”

 

“Let’s just start with the restaurant.”

 

“Umm…Hamilton was being really insistent about Spencer taking his pills. He took them out of Spencer’s pocket, opened them up, and was thrusting them at him. I told him to back off, and Spencer flipped, and smacked the pills away…They went flying. Guster recognized that the medication wasn’t what was prescribed…but, a memory suppressant—Hamilton was the one refilling the medications.” Karen felt a sudden surge of anger at the out-of-town detective.

 

“…And then Spencer went to punch him…he hit me…”

 

A cough quickly disguised her burst of laughter.

 

“Hamilton pulled his gun, and Guster went to slide tackle him across the table…he missed, got my shirt pretty good though…” Lassiter could feel his own anger beginning to stir.

 

“And then O’Hara got him with her gun…and brought him down…” Lassiter winced slightly in sympathy, “the old fashioned way.”

 

Karen sighed, rubbing a hand over her face.

 

“And Spencer…”

 

“Still thinks he’s Henry Lassie…but…sometimes he says things…I really think the medication was suppressing his memories, maybe preventing him from healing…”

 

“Just send in Guster, Carlton.”

 

As Lassiter closed the door behind the other man he couldn’t help but grin at Karen’s incredulous cry of, “My God, Mr. Guster, is there a reason why you are wearing the entire menu?”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“Have you ever tried to go with cuffs on, Nabby?”

 

_You can’t have anything to drink at a stakeout…_

 

_Great, now I think I gotta pee._

 

“Nabby?”

 

“Hmm? Oh, sorry, I was thinking about my cat—apparently it is going to have kittens.”

 

_He’s quite nice Gus. Go on, give him a snuggle._

 

“I’ve always wanted a little boy cat.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

There was a litter box in the back of his truck. And one of those post things. And food, and bowls, and litter, and toys with feathers and bells. In his passenger seat, in a cardboard box, was a very small, and thankfully, very quiet, medium-haired grey cat. He’d finally decided on that one, because it had eyes the same color as Shawn’s, something his son may not appreciate, but the only thing that gave the little furball any brownie points in his book. That, and the fact it was quiet. But, the thing was so getting declawed—there was no way this one was becoming in anyway familiar with the arm of his couch. Of course, the clerk had assured him the post would work wonders—Henry Spencer didn’t believe in miracles, though. That thing was most definitely getting declawed…especially if it kept poking holes in his pants like that.

 

*~~*

 

 

 

Karen walked out of her office behind Gus so she could tell O’Hara to get in her office…only to find Spencer dangling upside-down on the bench, legs in the air and head nearly touching the ground. “You know, this is a lot harder when you’re handcuffed.”

 

Lassiter’s eyes were closed as he did his best to ignore the other man, and Juliet was peering around the taller man to get a better look at Spencer’s antics.

 

Karen stopped Gus, whispering, “Are you sure he lost his memory?”

 

Gus just looked at her before returning to the bench, startling Lass and causing him to somersault backwards, landing on his face. “Ouch.”

 

“Maybe he’ll hit his head hard enough to knock some sense into it,” muttered Lassiter. “Quick, make him do it again.”

 

“Carlton!”

 

“Sorry, Chief…”

 

“O’Hara…my office.”

 

Lass pulled himself off the floor, using his shoulder and then Lassiter’s shoes for leverage, bouncing back into his spot on the bench. He looked as pleased as punch with himself. In reality, he was beyond frustrated.

 

What he really wanted to do was find where they were holding Hamilton, and beat the crap out of him.

 

He wanted to kill the man…

 

He wanted to understand…

 

Who was he? He was almost sure now, that he was Shawn Spencer…

 

Why had Hamilton lied to him?

 

Drugged him?

 

Used him?

 

Twirling around so he was upside down again, Lass let all the blood rush to his head. His head, which was pounding in time with the beat of his heart. His head, which felt like it might explode like a bomb at any second…

 

He closed his eyes, and pushed.

 

“C’mon, Lass,” Gus cajoled. “Just sit up.”

 

_We’re taking this case, Shawn._

 

_Shut up, Shawn._

 

_Shawn._

 

_Abs like Bruce Lee._

 

_Shawn._

 

_It’s not happening, Shawn._

 

_He is very forgiving, just last night, I poured the hot cocoa all over…_

 

_Shawn!_

 

Just a little further…

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

“My son is sitting down at the station in cuffs, why…HE DID WHAT?!” The three pound ball of fur jumped in the air, diving behind the box. He’d been just about to pull into his driveway, but now…

 

“I’m gonna…Karen…No, I don’t think I’m overreacting! Well, then you’ll have to arrest me! Just make sure you stick in the same damn cell as that bastard!! I’ll be there, Karen.”

 

 

 

*~~*

 

 

 

_I dazzle…and I, stretch…_

 

_H &K stands for hugs and kisses…_

 

Self-combustion probably had a very good chance of occurring at this point. Maybe his head was in labor.

 

_Gun…gold tooth…hitchhiking, bad idea…_

 

_Better hope Dad doesn’t find out…_

 

“Help me up, help me up!” Lass shouted, falling off the bench and rolling to his knees.

 

“What the heck…”

 

“I need that file…Lassie, I need that file!”

 

“What…” Lass took off towards the head detective’s desk, knocking officers out of his way with still cuffed hands.

 

Gus and Lassiter stood, taking off after him. Lass was attempting to use his elbows to open a copy of the file. “C’mon, c’mon…a little help would be nice guys…”

 

“What are you doing…”

 

“Hey! Nabby, get over here!”

 

McNabb appeared from around the corner, glancing down the hall and quickly moving past Karen’s office, which currently housed both her and O’Hara. “What?”

 

“Open it, open it!”

 

McNabb looked to Lassiter for approval, who in turn gestured threateningly with his own cuffed hands.

 

Muttering under his breath about cantankerous head detectives, McNabb flipped open the file, only to be shoved out of the way as Lass’ elbows started shuffling papers left and right until he came on the same picture he had stopped at before.

 

“KAN4103.”

 

“Huh?” was the only response, and that came from Gus.

 

“Washington. KAN4103.”

 

“What are you talking about?” Maybe falling of the bench had broken Spencer’s brain for good—that had to be it.

 

_The headlights glittered off the gun, and caught gold capped teeth, from this angle the license plate number seared itself to his brain, as did the out-of-state plates, before he was distracted…_

 

“KAN4103. It’s a Washington plate.” And then the dance erupted, as his headache started to dissipate, the routine slightly ruined by cuffed hands.

 

Lassiter stood stock still. This was it, Spencer was officially headed for the loony bin…

 

And then Gus gasped. “The serial killer’s license plate!”

 

“Dude, I so totally rock!” Holding out cuffed fists, Lass reached for a fist bump.

 

“What are you, psychic?”

 

“Lassie…I thought you’d never say that out-loud.”

 

 


	10. Bandaged Brain

 

 

    “Henry Spencer, stand down now!”

    “Dammit, Karen, let me at that bastard, I’m going to kill that sonna…”

    “Dad?”

    Henry stopped trying to push past the five newbies that were attempting to hold him back, instead standing on his tiptoes to peer at his son.  His son.  Who looked like he was about five years old and going to burst into tears at any minute.  “Shawn?”

    “Dad…can we go home.  Please?”

    Shawn was asking to go home.  Not Lassie.  Shawn.  Henry swallowed hard.  Whoever had put that look on his son’s face was going to pay.  “Sure thing kiddo.  The truck’s unlocked.  I’ll be right out.”  He saw his quick witted son take in the look on his face and glance around the department.

    “It isn’t worth it.  Not tonight, Dad.”  Now that wasn’t his son. “Besides--they’ve already kicked Lassie, Jules, and Gus out…Something about not being able to prosecute a person if they’re…dead.”  There was something on the way that Shawn choked on that last word, and Henry’s anger rose a notch as he realized that his son was different.  Yes, this was Shawn.  But he wasn’t happy, nor was he go-lucky.  It wasn’t the fact that his face pinched and he’d lost weight.  It wasn’t the fact that he actually had a tie…my God, Henry a tie…even if it was tied around his arm like something from a Vietnam peace movement.  No, he could tell that Shawn still was the prank-playing, innocent, fun loving, pointy object avoiding, and highly likely to get hurt doing something totally inane child that he had raised since birth.

    But he was different.  Because he was Henry Lassie.  He was Shawn Henry Lassie Spencer.  Two people in the same body.  And Henry Lassie was almost…subdued.  He had an anger that was just beneath the surface, a hard edge to his childish behavior that was almost vindictive.  Henry Lassie was a cop.  Shawn Spencer wasn’t.  And now Shawn had memories of both him and Lass--Henry couldn’t even fathom the headache the kid…no, young man, must have. 

    And he could see his son, reading the expressions on his face like a big open book, and the hardening in his eyes that nearly made Henry flinch.  “Don’t worry about me, Dad.  I still like pineapple.”

    “Oh…God, kid…”  And suddenly the chief and all of the cops dispersed, not willing to step in on such a private moment as Henry rushed forward and crushed his son in a suffocating embrace.

    “Dude…woah, you’re kinda killing the hair!”

    Henry backed up and smiled, blaming the florescent lights for the burning of his eyes.  “Like the Moo Goo Gai Pan didn’t already do that.”

    “Hey, I’ll have you know that Chinese food is a known hair growth stimulant.”

    “That’s what you said about banana cream pie when you came home covered in it.  What was that, fourth grade?”

    Shawn frowned slightly.  His head was still pounding, and there were large black holes in his life--holes that he was certain weren’t supposed to be there.

    “Hey, don’t worry about it, kiddo.”  Henry grasped Shawn’s arms tightly. “Everything is going to be fine.  You’ll see.” 

    “Are you sure you’re my father?  From what I remember…”

    “Alright, smart ass--let’s get you home.  I’ll make you something to eat.”

    “As long as it doesn’t involve a whisk.”

    He reached up and smacked Shawn across the back of the head.  “Ow.  Guess you really are my father.”

    “There’s going to be more where that came from if you don’t start marching right now.”

    Shawn flashed a quick grin and immediately pulled up his knees, making sure they went well above his naval and came down with a resounding slap with every step.  No--his son wasn’t the same.  But everything was going to be alright.

~~**~~

    He couldn’t believe that she’d threatened to take his badge.

    All he was going to do was slap the LAPD detective around a little bit.

    Okay, maybe it was a lot a bit.

    It was too bad she’d caught O’Hara attempting to slink down to the holding cells…

    It wasn’t like he was doing it for Spencer or anything.

    He was doing it because Hamilton was a dirty cop.

    And if there was one thing Lassiter hated more than fake psychics…

    It was a dirty cop.

~~**~~

    Normally Shawn was the one getting kicked out of the police station.

    But the chief hadn’t seen how Shawn had crumpled in on himself after spilling nonsense babble about gold teeth and license plates.

    Because then her blood pressure would have gone through the roof.

    And charged right down to the holding cells.

    Now that he thought about it--it probably wasn’t a good idea to commit assault and battery in the middle of a police station.  To a cop no less.

    But at that moment in time, the only thing that Burton Guster had been thinking about was how to make Hamilton hurt as much as he had when he thought his best friend was dead.  How to make that…monster…suffer like he saw Shawn suffering…he probably shouldn’t have decked McNabb when he tried to stop him from something that he thought Gus, might, later regret.  Maybe a gift card and a new litter box would make up for that black eye…

~~**~~  
    Hamilton smiled to himself, wincing at his own stupidity as it pulled the muscles in his swollen face.  The officers had not been overly concerned about him arriving to the holding cell in one piece, and after his head had been slammed off the squad car door, twice, he’d resigned himself to not being able to see straight for at least the next week. 

    But none of this mattered.

    Because he was so off the hook.

    There was no way that they could ever prove that he knew what was in the prescription bottles.  How easy it would be to turn the tables.  He’d always had Cullen pick up the pills.  It was Cullen that had hid any evidence that they were looking for Shawn Spencer.  It was Cullen who had clearly had a personal vendetta against the amnesiac, ever since he showed him up at that country club.  It was Cullen who had tried to get repeatedly, thinking Hamilton would never know, get Henry Lassie taken off the force.  And it was Cullen who was going to take the blame.

    Besides, Hamilton had bigger fish to fry now.  If Lassie, Spencer, whatever the hell his name was now, figure out those crime scene photos, figured out his case, then he was going to be screwed.  Hamilton had seen the photos, known immediately who was behind all of the kidnappings and killings.  He’d seen the handy work before.  He knew his, probably now ex, partner would figure it out sooner, rather than later.  Which meant that his first order of business would be getting rid of him.

    Perhaps it was time to take his one phone call.  It was high time he checked up on his brother anyway.

~~**~~

    “Umm…Dad…what the heck is that thing and why is it staring at me?”

    Henry peered over his son’s shoulder to look in the truck.  He cleared his throat, wondered for a second just how addled his son’s brain was, and replied, “That, Shawn, is called a cat.”

    “I know what it is, Dad…What exactly is it doing in your truck?  I mean…after you killed Chairman Meow…”

    “I did not kill Chairman Meow, Shawn!”

    “That’s right, you just brought him to the glue…I think it just peed on your ball cap.”

    “I thought these things came litterbox trained!”

    “Well it isn’t like you have one sitting in the cab of your truck…besides, your hat probably smells about the same.” 

    Part of Henry knew that this was Shawn’s way of trying to right himself in a world gone mad.  Part of him knew that Shawn was reaching for something, anything, that was a semblance of normal.  Part of Henry was certain that Shawn was just testing, to make sure his dad would still be there…And part of Henry wanted to just reach out, wrap his hands around his son’s neck, and shake….but maybe that was because he just wanted to make sure Shawn was real after having been gone so long…nope, that desire was purely born of frustration. 

    “The cat…wasapresentforyou.” 

    “It’s a what?”  Eyes lit up in glee.  He’d opened the door in two seconds flat, scooping up the hissing ball of grey fur.  “Oh, what a cout wittle girwl…”  Already the two were exchanging head rubs. 

    “Umm…Shawn…”

    “Hmm?  Dat’s a good girl…”

    “The cat’s a boy….”

    “You looked!  How dare you, Dad!  Now the cat will be emotionally scarred for life!”  
   
    Once again resisting the urge to strangle, Henry Spencer just shoved his son over into the passenger seat, trying to ignore the baby talk and engine sounds that kept coming from Shawn in the cat, wondering why the police station seemed to be oh so far from home.

    Almost as soon as they’d gotten home, Shawn had disappeared, and Henry had let him, he could already hear the banging around that suggested the younger man was setting up some sort of cat paradise, though he was not thrilled to find the litter box in his bathroom.  It wasn’t until almost one in the morning that Henry broke, and could wait no longer, heading towards Shawn’s room and praying that there wasn’t a cat post hanging from the ceiling. 

    He was pleasantly surprised to find the cat post on the floor, and said furball sleeping in the assigned bed thingy that he’d bought for it.  So far it appeared there was no damaged furniture or holes in any of his walls, which left the question of what Shawn had really been banging around up there…ahh.

    His son was sitting in the corner of the room…how many times had he found him there as a kid, especially during the divorce…a large trunk situated a few feet away, and photos were spread all over the floor.

    “Shawn…”

    He looked up, and for a second there was the little boy who’d come home with a black eye, not understanding why anyone would want to hurt him.  Henry could seen the tears, they were tears of frustration, tears of pain, unshed and waiting to fall at the first chance given.  Henry had never given him a chance.  Not when he was little.  Not before he ran away.  But maybe it was never too late…

    “Shawn…kid…”

    “When was this taken?”

    Henry’s eyes were drawn past the shaking hands to the 4x6 that was being shoved at him.  It was Shawn and his mother, taken the night before she walked out…

    “And who is she…is she my mother?”

    Henry just nodded, unable to swallow past the lump in his throat.   Good Lord, what had happened to his son…

    “Where is she…I know she’s gone…I don’t know where though…she isn’t dead, right?”

    “No,” he whispered, unsure of what to say, to do…

    “But she’s in all of these photos, and I don’t even recognize her!  I can’t…Ahh!”  The scream of frustration had sent the cat flying under the bed, untimely woken from his slumber.  Henry shouldn’t have left Shawn alone so long…

    “And this…there’s a picture of your truck, painted hot pink with bunnies all over it…and I know that I did it.  I know I took this picture.  I know it wasn’t that long ago…but I can’t remember it.”

    Henry took a step forward and stopped.  He’d never been able to comfort Shawn before…and now…

    “There’s these holes, Dad!  I know who you are.  I tried to remember exactly what happened the last time I saw you but all I keep thinking about is hats.  Hats. Hats.  Visors, caps, cowboys, hats…there was this guy, and he had a gold tooth…but no hat, no hat…”

    “Shawn, Shawn, calm down…”  Henry moved slowly, treating his son like a wounded animal, trying to keep him from feeling cornered so that he would be able to reach him, help  
him…

    “He’s out there killing kids, and I know I know him, but I’m not sure where…there’s a hole, I’m falling down the goddamned hole, Dad, right next to Alice, and there’s the Mad Hatter…he has a hat, right?” 

    “Yeah, kid, the Mad Hatter had a hat…” One step forward.

    “I don’t like to wear hats….”

    “I know kid.”  Another step.  If only he could get close enough to wipe away those tears.

    “Did I love her?”

    Henry stopped dead.  “Who, Shawn?”

    “My mother.”  Shawn may not remember that day, but Henry could clearly remember how the world had crumbled when he woke up and his mother had gone.  No note.  No goodbye.  Henry could remember how every Christmas and birthday Shawn would stare longingly at the phone…

    “Very much.”

    “Then why can’t I remember her…” he whispered.  “I remember my first kiss, but I don’t remember prom…I remember being arrested and I don’t know why.  I remember egging Gus’ car…but I can’t remember when I did it…I remember waking up in a hospital and being unable to eat anything but blue Jello.  I remember Shawn Spencer…but I remember Henry Lassie…and neither of them seem real…Dad…” His breath hitched, a strangled sob as he curled in on himself.

    Henry took another step forward, displacing pictures as he dropped down next to his fractured son and pulled him into his arms.  He was surprised when Shawn reached out, grasping onto his vibrant, color-clashing, patterned shirt like it was his only life line.  “Shh…everything is going to be okay…” he patted awkwardly at Shawn’s head, kind of like you would do with a puppy dog…but Henry didn’t like puppies.

    Shawn hiccupped and gasped, pulling himself a little closer, so Henry must have been doing something right… “Dad…”

    “What is it Shawn?”

    “Dad…I think I killed someone.” 

    He couldn’t help the tears that filled his own eyes, that he hid by pressing his lips to the top of his son’s head.  There were no platitudes for this.  There was no making it better.  Henry hadn’t been there when it happened, couldn’t hold his son after the first time he killed someone in the line of duty.  The real reason he had secretly hoped  Shawn would never become a cop--it would hurt him too much.  And it had.

    “Dad…he was just a kid…”

     Just a kid running around with a Superman cape in the backyard…

    “Just a kid…”

    And as Henry Spencer sat on the floor, staring up at pineapple lights and Harrison Ford posters, he was forced to wonder, just where in his life he had gone wrong. 

~~**~~

    Hamilton smiled as the cold early morning air hit his face.  In LA, Cullens was sitting in some holding cell, desperately trying to deny all accusations.  It wouldn’t work.  His plan was airtight.

    He’d agreed to not press charges against the Irish detective and all of his friends.  He’d told them that it was all just one big misunderstanding.  And when people in LA had found the pills he’d planted at Cullens desk...

    His smile disappeared when he saw his car.  It wasn’t blue anymore.  No more flames.  No more lights…and no more tires.  Or doors.  Or seats for that matter.  It was a good thing he’d already had it in his mind to kill Shawn Spencer, otherwise he might have been rushing off to do it now.

    As it were, that would have to wait. 

    When he finished up with his brother tonight, there would be another dead body in the morning.

    And then after that…

    Spencer was fair game.

    Nobody double crossed Hamilton and got away with it.  Not his old partner.  And certainly not some kid from Santa Barbara.

 


	11. Missing Memory Mind

 

    Sometime, during the early hours of the morning, he must have fallen asleep.  And apparently he hadn’t fallen asleep in his bed.  Nothing else would explain the aching back and numbed limbs, coupled with the fact that he wasn’t sure if he could even move his leg…because something was on top of it.  That something was rather large…that’s right, it was his son…If that was what was on his right leg what the hell was poking his left…that’s right.  The cat.  There was only one remedy for the way he felt right now.  As soon as he managed to get up, Henry Spencer was going fishing.

    After butt stopped vibrating.

    Oh.  That must be his phone.

    Twisting his free arm in an unnatural position, Henry reached for his phone, somewhat concerned that the vibrating might wake his, strangely angelic looking, son.  Getting his left hand to his back right pocket though…oh shit…that pop couldn’t have been any good.

    Shawn was going to have to get up sooner rather than later.

    Before his dislocated arm froze up.

    In his back pocket, Henry’s phone vibrated again.  
    

~~**~~

    If Carlton Lassiter was the Incredible Hulk, his house would have crumbled to the ground.  As it was, his phone was in serious danger of being crushed at any second.  “O’Hara…slow down…”

    He heard the blonde detective take in a deep breath and she started again.

    “What do you mean the DA wouldn’t prosecute!?….No, I’m not yelling at you, I’m yelling with you…This is not the time to debate who is getting yelled at by whom…Okay, fine, I’m sorry…TAKEN OFF THE CASE!!!”

    In retrospect--the shattered window had been a little dramatic.  Especially since he highly doubted he’d ever find his phone again.  But then again, the last time something like this had happened he’d punched a wall--and the only thing he’d had to shown for it was bloody knuckles, and since they were already torn up from the night before…

    His cell phone was ringing to “I‘m too Sexy”--he’d repay Spencer later.  “Lassiter…the line got disconnected…okay, fine, I threw you out a window….Yes, well, if it makes you feel better, you did manage to break it on the way out…No, I’m not calling you fat…” He rolled his eyes and reached for his holster and badge.  “I’m on my way down, we’ll straighten this out…what do you mean not allowed down…”

    Carlton’s blood pressure rose as he heard O’Hara reiterate the entire lecture she’d received that morning--apparently the chief had been very clear that her head detective was not allowed anywhere near the low-life from the LAPD--who was now in charge of the case.  

    “O’Hara, I want you to get copies of the files and bring them over…I know what she said…Sweet Justice O’Hara--do you want to nail this guy or not…I wasn’t talking about the serial killer--Spencer mentioned something about this Hamilton guy offing his last partner…yeah, well, we can’t prosecute based on the heebie jeebies…just pull everything we’ve got on this guy and head over, oh, and grab me a coffee…”  Looking at the destroyed remains of his own machine on his floor, thrown in last night’s fit of rage, Lassiter quickly decided he should clean them up before O’Hara arrived.  “My coffee pot…it bit the bullet…why would you think I meant literally…” And patch that .35 caliber sized hole in the wall, now.  It was a good thing that Carlton Lassiter wasn’t the Incredible Hulk.  Otherwise his television would have been broken by now too…

~~**~~

 

    Gus couldn’t sleep.

    Hadn’t slept.

    Wouldn’t sleep.

    He’d paced around his apartment until almost two in the morning, turning lights on and off, changing television stations, opening and closing the refrigerator and cabinets, and finally getting into the Psychmobile and heading to his parent’s house.  There he wandered up and down the stairs, turned the lights on and off, changed the television stations and went through all the cabinets and the fridge before his mother finally kicked him out--citing the fact that he was driving her insane.

    Which had led him to driving aimlessly around town before parking in the grocery store parking lot, the only place that appeared to be open in the wee hours of the morning.  There was almost no one there, a couple of mothers rushing around looking for medication for sick infants and people who had just gotten off of third shift…

    He picked up food at random, dropping it into his cart and moving on to the next isle.  There was only so much that would fit into a cart, and eventually Gus had to move towards the checkout counter.  As he watched the items go by on the conveyer belt, he was startled to realize there seemed to be one major theme tying all the items together.  It was whole, cored, chunked, crushed, canned, and juiced. And it was all pineapple.  

    That could indirectly explain why he was standing outside Henry Spencer’s house, holding a pineapple in one hand as the other hovered between his side and the doorbell.  His lack of sleep could explain why he hadn’t quite figured out how to push the doorbell in the past five minutes that he’d been on the porch.  It certainly didn’t have to do with the fact that he was nervous about seeing his best friend…

    “Are you going to stand there all day or do you want to come in?”  Speak of the devil.    
    He was standing behind the screen door in the same clothes, albeit slightly more rumpled, that he’d worn yesterday.  Leftover Chinese was still visible, though the tie was, thankfully, missing.  Holding open the door, Shawn gestured for Gus to step in, and after a second of hesitation, Gus stepped through, thrusting the pineapple in Shawn’s direction.

    “Oh, thanks buddy…but I must say--I think my dad one upped you.  He got me a cat.”    
    “There is no way that your dad bought you a cat Shawn.  The day that happens is the day that…”  A swiftly moving dust ball caught his eye, and then suddenly attacked his shoelaces.  “Holy crap, Shawn!”  

    “Mister Snuggles, meet Gus, Gus, meet Mister Snuggles.”

    “Are you sure your dad wasn’t abducted by aliens, Shawn?  I mean, after we gave him that puppy…”    

    He trailed off, watching as Shawn’s hand twitched, almost like he was going to lift it to his forehead, as he did when he struggled to hone in on a particular memory.  And Gus, who had been around Shawn for nearly his entire life recognized the fake psychic’s facial expressions even better than his own.

    “Shawn…you can’t remember it…can you…”

    “Now that depends on what you mean by it.  If you mean the time that you insisted on riding in a golf cart…”

    “Shawn…”

    They were both distracted by Spencer senior entering the room, his voice rising with every word that exited his mouth. “I know that your hands are tied, Karen!  Look--I’ve got to go…No, don’t bother, Gus is here--I’ll talk to him…yeah, you too.  Bye.”  

    Henry snapped his phone shut and sighed.  He ran his hand over his head, looking for a ball cap to adjust automatically, a sure sign that he was upset.  “Shawn…”

    “They let Hamilton go.”

    “Yeah, kid, they let Hamilton go.”

    “What?!  How could they…”

    But Gus’ protests faded away, vaguely he could hear his dad say something about an officer named Cullen…

    Maybe he had been wrong.

    He thought Hamilton had ordered Cullen to get rid of the missing person’s report…about the guy with the motorbike…

     _Gold tooth…_

    He couldn’t even remember his own mother, how could he be sure…  
 _  
Crystal meth…Man that guy stunk…_

    Couldn’t remember her smile.

    “Shawn.”  
  
    Flash of a gun…put down the backpack…  
  
    “Shawn!”

    Besides--Hammy had always been there for him…hadn’t he?  
 _  
Bigfoot…_

    “Shawn!  Snap out of it, kid!”  

    It wasn’t his father’s voice that brought him back, but the sound of Barbie Girl ringing from his pocket.  There was only one person who had his cell number… “Hello…sure thing, I’ll be right there.”  Pocketing his phone, Shawn headed towards the door, running a hand through his hair and picking out a stray piece of Sweet and Sour.

    “Shawn!”

    “Sorry, Dad.  I’ve got to go--they found another body down by the marina.”

    “And just how are you getting there?”

    “Hammy’s waiting outside for me.”

    “Shawn, you can’t seriously be getting in the car with him after what he did to you!”

    “What exactly did he do to me, Gus?  I’m not sure what I remember any more.  What I do know, though, is that there is a dead kid floating in the water, and I might be the only one who can stop the next one from being killed!”

    “Shawn…that’s not you talking, kid, that’s Henry Lassie.”

    “So?  Does it really matter, Dad?  Because I am Henry Lassie, just as much as I’m Shawn Spencer.  Besides--wouldn’t you rather have Henry Lassie around?  Isn’t he everything you wanted?  Congratulations, Dad, I finally became a cop.”

    “Shawn! No, wait…get your ass back in here!  Shawn!!”  

    His only answer was the swinging of a screen door.

~~**~~

    The car ride to the pier had been almost agonizingly painful.  While Hamilton spilled out platitudes and promises of what would be coming to Cullen once he got ahold of him, Shawn sat silently looking out the window, feeling slightly guilty for the parting words that he’d gifted his father with.  He’d even thought that it would be best to apologize, but he couldn’t remember the house phone number, and only managed to give himself a pounding headache.  “Hey Hammy.”

    “What?”

    “Can you shut up, for like two seconds.”  

    Hamilton stopped talking.  Shawn sighed heavily and rolled down his window, hoping fresh air would help with his headache and perhaps dissipate the sickly smell in Hammy’s rental car.  Either someone had really bad body odor or…why did that smell make him think of Mexico?  
  
    Raining…Dad’s gonna kill me…headlights…

    “Hey, Lass, we’re here.”

    “It’s Shawn.  Spencer.  Shawn Spencer.”

    “Right, sorry.”

    “Look, I don’t know how I feel about this whole thing, so let’s just go bust whoever this guy is, and we’ll work from there.”

    “I can do that,” Hammy said quietly.  “I can definitely do that.”  

    Chief Vick was there, on her cell, ordering someone at the station around.

    Uniformed officers swarmed the area, McNabb was there, one eye swollen shut…Shawn was surprised that Gus had managed to swing his arm up that high.

    Someone had fished the body out of the pier.  She couldn’t have been more than eight--one of the oldest victims yet.  Even from a distance Shawn could see that she’d been brutally tortured--her blonde hair stained with mud and rust, tattered remains of cloth still clung to her body, pasted by the salt water to her thin form.  The human body wasn’t meant to bend in such a manner--how her limbs had twisted…

    It was worse than seeing it in photos.

    It wasn’t the same when it was just a chalk outline.

    It wasn’t even the same as when it was an adult.

    Just a kid.  She was just a kid.

    “Hey, Spencer--look, there’s a blood trail…”

    Shawn turned towards where Hamilton was pointing.  “The body was in the water…why would there be a trail?  Those footprints are huge…”

    He turned to look behind him, half expecting to see a beat up red Chevy…but there was just Hammy’s rental car.  A Chevy alright, but this one was silver…

    “Put the book bag down!”

    “Spencer!”

    “Sorry, sorry.  I’m coming.”  

~**~

    Carlton took a sip from the precious liquid in the styrofoam cup.  Almost immediately his head seemed to clear, the cream and sugar mixture rushing to jump start his brain.  O’Hara had spread all of the crime scene photos across his table, neatly labeling each of them.

    “All right--Spencer said something about Hamilton’s partner being shot from behind.”

    “Well, the autopsy report confirmed that,” Juliet said, flipping through a couple more pages.  “There was an investigation--but the bullet didn’t come from a registered weapon, and Hamilton only had his registered weapon with him that night…”

    “Give me that.”  Lassiter snatched the report from her hands, causing a small cry of protest which he duly ignored.  Wandering over to his counter to find additional sugar for his coffee, Carlton absentmindedly flipped through the pages.  “Says here that they determined there was an additional shooter behind Hamilton and his partner…”

    “But I don’t get it.  Hamilton was closer to the shooter, wouldn’t the shooter have taken him out first…Carlton…that’s an awful lot of sugar…”

    “Hmm…oh, Sweet Justice…”  A white mountain was poking out the top of his cup.  Pitching the contents in the sink, knowing that he’d have to scrub out the hardened crystals later, Carlton moved back to the table to look at the photos.  “Where was Hamilton standing?”

    “Here.”  Juliet pointed to a spot about  five feet behind the shooter.

    “And where did they say the shooter was?”

    “Here.” The broken window was only one story off the ground.

    “It would have been a clear shot to hit Hamilton.  In fact, if I was the shooter, I would have taken him out first.  By shooting the one in front, you clue the partner in that there’s someone behind them…”

    “Hamilton testified that he turned and got a couple of shots off, but they all went wide.”  
    “He turned when there were three gang members trying to hit him from the front?  That doesn’t make any sense.”  Carlton peered closer at the pictures.

    “That’s odd.”

    “What’s odd, O’Hara?”

    “Some of the rounds in the gang members matched the one that killed Hamilton’s partner.”  

    “Which means whoever the shooter was wasn’t with the gang.”

    “You think…”

    “No, I don’t O’Hara.  I know.  Call the Chief, now.”

    He had his own phone out in two seconds flat, gun and badge already in place as he took out the door as if Hell was on his heels.

 

    


	12. Bringing Back the Brain

   “Carlton?”

    Henry Spencer admitted he was a little surprised to hear from the Head Detective.  He held up a finger to stop Gus’ immediate questions, trying to decipher what the man on the other end of the line was going on about.  “Where’s Shawn?  Down at the pier I think…that detective from the LAPD drove him… _murdered his partner_ …Oh God, Shawn.”

    He’d crossed the room in two seconds flat, tearing into the cabinet and pulling out a box of Captain Crunch.  Reaching into the rainbow puffs, he pulled out a handgun, already thrusting it into his waistband and motioning Gus out the door before the box hit the counter.

    “I’m on my way.”  He snapped the phone shut while simultaneously throwing the truck in reverse, leaving Gus, who had been locked out, half hanging out the window like some version of a modern-day Dukes of Hazard.  

    Gus managed to pull himself to safety just before he could get clipped by a mailbox at 45 mph, though his Puma wasn’t so lucky.  “Let me guess, Shawn’s in trouble?”

    “Apparently Hamilton killed his last partner.”  
   
    “As in…”

    “Yes, Gus.  Dead.”  

    “Oh.”

    “Vick said she thought she saw them at the crime scene, but they disappeared not long after that.”  

    “You don’t think that…”

    “I don’t know, Gus, but I’m not sticking around to find out.”

    And that ended their conversation, the rest of the ride punctuated only with cursing and the blaring of car horns.  Which left Gus to wonder what else Mr. Spencer kept in his cereal boxes.

~**~

    It seemed a little cliché that the footprints would lead to some abandoned warehouse on the pier.

    Perhaps what bothered Shawn the most was that the blood splattered prints were leading to the building, not away from it.  Or maybe it was the fact that they seemed to clean cut--each print easily distinguishable from the other.  He had been so busy looking at the ground, that he didn’t notice the glint in Hamilton’s eye.

    Some part of him knew this was all wrong.

    But he couldn’t be sure.

    Holes.  Too many holes.

    “Hey, Hammy, maybe we should call for back…”

    The butt of a gun and the familiar scene of pavement rising up to meet him…  
  
    Hitchhiking…bad idea…  
  
    He woke up to one very scared pair of blue eyes.

    Trying to focus around blurring double vision and the pounding in his head was harder than he thought, but those eyes forced him to push…

    Hamilton.  They were checking out a warehouse at the pier and then…

    What if they’d gotten Hammy too…

    Wherever he was--the smell made him want to vomit.  A mix of rotting fish and something that was too sweet…

    His wrists hurt…he was handcuffed to what appeared to be a conveyor belt.

    And his head…

    And those eyes.

    “Hey, sweetie…my name’s Shawn.”  

    “Shh…they’re coming.  I have to hide.”

    Until that moment he hadn’t realized that she was free.

    “How did you…”

    “I kicked him real hard where it hurts like my mommy told me too.  He said some mean words…”

    Shawn could hear the footsteps approaching.  He needed to get his act into gear if either of them were going to make it out of here alive.  Part of him hoped that Hammy wasn’t already dead--maybe he had been able to make it out to get help…

    “Hey, honey, can I borrow that bobby pin in your hair?”

    Nodding seriously the little girl, she can’t be more than six, removed the pin and pressed it into Shawn’s hands.  “Okay, now I need you to go hide, and no matter what you see, or what you hear, you need to keep quiet.”  

    “’Kay…”

    “Promise me.”

    “I promise.”

    “Good, now go.”  

    She scampered behind a box just as the first man rounded the corner.

    He felt like he’d been hit by a ton of bricks.  

    Suddenly the entire night rushed back into his head, the bobby pin nearly slipping from his lifeless fingers.  

    That smell was crystal meth.

    The same smell that had wafted from Bigfoot the night Shawn had run.

    The same smell that was in Hammy’s rent-a-car…

    Too late his mind had picked up the pieces and reassembled them so he could see the picture, too late the damaged grey matter cried of betrayal.  And before Hammy even rounded the corner, Shawn had run through everything, pushing away the hurt and panic,--all his holes filled in and paved over, already a half-assed plan attempting to assemble itself in his mind.    
    His palms were sweaty as he tried to position the bobby pin in the cuffs.

    He could do this.  He’d done this a dozen times--okay, most of the time it was Gus locked up…

    “You know, I’m really surprised I didn’t see the family resemblance before.  Give or take 200 pounds, you could be identical.”

    “Shut up.”

    “I don’t think I will.”

    “Hey, you’re the guy I took the money from.”

    “And you’re the guy who taught me not to hitchhike.”  It was a good thing that the bobby pin wasn’t sharp--he’d probably be missing a finger by…

    “OWW!!!  Geez--what the heck is it with you people and hitting me in the head.  Jesus…”  His vision swam and bile rose in his throat, the gun leaving another large welt and blood dripping in front of his eye.

    “Harry!  Knock it off!  You’re in deep shit as it is.  We’ve got to find that kid.”  

    “Really, Harry Hamilton?  What’s your middle name, Harold?”

    “I told you to shut up, Spencer.”  

    Twisting his wrist slightly, and trying not to wince as the metal dug into his skin, Shawn replied, “Why should I, it isn’t going to stop you from killing me.”

    “You know, he does have a point.”

    “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Biggie McBigfoot, but I think you’re supposed to be on your brother’s side.”  

    “Biggie Mc…” The gun raised and Shawn ducked down, waiting for the blow.  When it didn’t fall, he peeked up, only to find Bigfoot’s meaty fist being held back by Hammy.  
   
    “You can’t let him get to you, Harry.  Trust me, I can’t wait to kill him.  But first we’ve got to find that kid.”  

    It was kind of nice to have all the cards laid out on the table like that.  At least he knew for sure that Hammy hated him.  And that he was going to die.

~**~

    “McNabb--you’re coming with me!”

    “Y…yes, sir!”

    Lassiter had taken control the second his foot had hit the pier.

    Not that it should have surprised anyone.

    “Carlton--there’s an abandoned car over here--it looks like the plates match the ones that Shawn had a vision about…”

    Long strides ate up the dock in seconds.  “Looks like there’s prints…Somebody dust down this car!!”

    His demand was answered with another.  “Where’s my son!?”

    “Henry!”

    “Not now, Karen!  Where is he?”

    The bloody footprints caught Lassiter’s eye.  

    “We’ve got them!  McNabb with me, O’Hara, with Spencer…Guster…stay here.”

    “But…”

    “Gus, call an ambulance,” Henry shouted, gun out as he followed behind Lassiter.  “Knowing Shawn, we’re going to need one.”  

    Gus really couldn’t argue with that.  Besides, he did only have one shoe on.

    They followed the footprints through the warehouses, stopping when they found the pool of blood.  “Not much there…”  Lassiter tried not to let his blood pressure rise.  If someone other than him got to kill Spencer…

    “Shawn isn’t dead.  I’d know if he was dead.”

    Lassiter looked at the three people that he had with him.  Henry Spencer--he was a cop through and through.  O’Hara--silent and determined, but he sure as hell hoped she never really had to fire her weapon.  He knew she had his back--but he didn’t want to see the weeks of nightmares she’d have after her first kill.  The same went for McNabb--that man deserved nothing more than to wake up every morning next to his wife, something he himself could no longer do.  All of them, so different, and yet all of them were standing here for the same person.  

    He had better not be dead.

    “Let’s go.”  

    ~**~

    There was a satisfying click and Shawn caught the cuffs before they hit the floor, making sure that he didn’t give the game away.  

    “The kid couldn’t have gotten far, go check over by those crates.”

    “Why don’t you go check over by the crates?”

    Shawn didn’t want either of them checking over by those crates.  Not while that little girl was still over by those crates.   “Because, Biggie McBigfoot, he’s the brain and you’re the brawn…if you could call that bowl full of jelly brawn, because I think you could give jolly old Saint Nick a run for his money.”

    Harry Hamilton took a step forward, only to be stopped by his brother.  “I told you no, Harry.  He’s just trying to get you worked up.  Now get over there and find that kid!”  

    “I get to go at her first, right?”

    “You can have her, Harry, I’ve got my own problems to take care of.”  

    “Oh, come on Hammy--I would have given your car doors back…eventually.”  
   
    “I can’t wait to kill you, Spencer.”

    “You know, if everyone who wanted to kill me had killed me by now, I’d have died an awful lot of times.”  

    “I’m sure.”

    Shawn glanced over at the larger man who was approaching the crates.  “So, Biggie McBigfoot, or should I call you Meth Mouth?”  When the giant turned Shawn knew he had him right where he wanted him.  “Do you have to special order toilet seats, because there is no way that your a…” Like a charging rhino the murderer took off, and Hammy was too far away to stop him.

    The gun raised and Shawn’s foot lashed out, causing fingers to go limp and the gun to drop into his waiting hands.

    Click.

    Bam.

    Click.

    Bam.

    Funny, his hands didn’t seem to be shaking.

~**~

    They were too late.

    The sound of gunfire had pierced the air and they were too late.

    No matter how hard he pushed his legs were never going to bring him there in time.

    His gun was out, but it was too late.

    He’d failed.

    The sound of the banging warehouse doors seemed deafening, colors swirling together, everything slowing…

    How many times had he been in this situation?  But never was it his son on the other side of the door, never…

    “Shawn!”    

    His eyes had passed over the two prone bodies on the floor, cooling pools of blood and vacant eyes already telling him of their fate.  Instead he was rushing towards the one sprawled half over a crate, legs dangling over one end and head dangling over the other.

    “Dad?”

    “Spencer!”

    “Lassie!  Dude, a little help?  I kinda got stuck trying to help Sophie here up.”  

    Both Henry and Lassiter had crossed the room, each grabbing one of Shawn’s legs and heaving.  “Ow, ow, ow, splinters in the stomach!”  

    And as a little head appeared Juliet ran over, pulling the small girl down and into her arms.

    As both Lassiter and Henry began to lay into Shawn at the same time, yelling something about fake psychics and dog houses, McNabb was peering at the two bodies on the floor.  It was no wonder that there was so much blood, each man had been shot right through the heart, one tap each, a killing blow.  Buzz’s appreciative whistle drew Lassiter’s stare.

    “What is it, McNabb?”  

    Henry was currently trying to clean the blood off that had caused Shawn’s eye to get stuck shut, the other eye showing definite signs of a concussion as the pupil dilated.  
   
    Lassiter crossed the room to see what had left the young cop speechless.

    His head spun from the bullet hole to Spencer.  There was no way…not unless he’d been trained…Especially with the one eye swollen shut and the other clearly not seeing straight…Shawn caught his eye from across the room and smiled softly.

    Before he could even say anything the sound of sirens came blaring--the ambulance and black and whites that O’Hara had called for seconds before.  Before he knew it he was left alone with a couple of dead bodies and a whole lot of unanswered questions.  

~**~

    It was nearly a month before Lassiter worked up the courage to head down to the Psych office. A month of paper work, ensuring that Spencer wasn’t prosecuted, and that none of this would come back to legally haunt him later.  A month of poorly hidden attempts by O’Hara to guilt him into seeing the fake psychic.  An entire month that there were no dancing visions in the middle of the station, no rearranged desks, no items falling on him from strange places.  But Lassiter ignored all this, knowing that he wasn’t just being callous, as much as it looked like he was to those around him, instead giving the young man time to heal.  He had his dad, and he had his best friend--he didn’t need everyone else crowding in on him.   So it had been a month before Lassiter could hold it off no longer, O’Hara’s comments becoming near unbearable, and a stern order from the chief bringing him down to the boardwalk.

     Shawn had reopened the office the week before, after much arm twisting from both his dad and best friend.  Both had insisted on helping move all of the old paraphernalia back in, frog and mountain bike included, as well as a brand new dog house (for the cat)--something that he had spent nearly three weeks perfecting with his dad.  Right now, though, he was alone, rearranging Gus’ desk and tying all the handles to one another in retribution for finishing off the pineapple upside down cake.

    “Lassie.  What brings you down here?”  

    He cleared his throat and pulled out the can of crushed pineapple he’d stuck in his pocket on the way out the door that morning.  “Brought you a present.”

    Shawn caught the can as it flew by his head. “Thanks, Lassie.  Did you meet Mister Snuggles?”  

    That must have been the dust bunny that was making itself familiar with his pant hem.  

    “He seems very welcoming.”  

    “Oh yes.  Just yesterday he peed all over Gus’ dry cleaning.”

    That figured.

    “But you aren’t here to give me pineapple, are you?”

    For a second Lassie saw the LAPD detective flash through Shawn’s eyes, and then he was gone again, buried deep.  

    “No…I know you aren’t psychic.”  

    Shawn just nodded and gave a half smile.  “So?”

    “So, how do you do it?”

    “You really want to know, Lassie?  It would kind of take the magic out of it, don’t you think?”  

    “It would sure as hell make you less annoying.”  He paused and sighed.  In reality, he didn’t want to admit that Shawn Spencer had changed.  Didn’t want to admit that maybe things weren’t going to ever be the same.  Shawn smiled less often, and in turn, so did everyone else.  Would it really hurt him not to know a little bit longer?

    “Carly?”

    “Someday, Spencer, you’re going to have to tell me how you do it.”  

    “But not today?”  Shawn tied the string leading from Gus’ desk to the refrigerator’s handle.  

    “No, Spencer, not today.”  

    He turned to leave but stopped, nearly tripping over the cat.

    “The chief wanted you to have this.”  He pulled an envelope from his suit jacket, passing it over to the younger man.  

    “Tell her I said thanks, but no thanks.”

    “You didn’t even open it.”

    “Lassie, I’m psychic.”

    “Psycho is more like it.”  

    Shawn grinned widely, having successfully wound the string around three lamps and the knob to the back door.  “I’d like to keep it that way.  Tell the chief I said to give the badge to someone who’s earned it.”

    “And what about the license…”

    “To carry concealed?  I already have one.”  

    “You already…”

    “Do me a favor, tie this to the windowpane.”  Lassiter caught the flying string before it could take his eye out.  “I grew up with a criminal psychologist for a mother and a cop as a father.  I can shoot a gun.”

    Winding the string around the window latch, the Head Detective sighed, and then nearly choked on his next words.  “You’d make a good cop.”  It was quickly followed with an, “If you tell anyone…”

    “Thanks, Lassie.  I know how much that means coming from you.  But I don’t want to be a cop.  I’m happy just being me.  I think I finally figured that out.”

    “So no more running?”

    “Are you saying that you were worried about me?”  The mock surprise was grating.

    Worried…Lassiter tossed the string back to Shawn, watching as he wound it once again around the handle to Gus’ desk drawer.  “I…no.”

    “No more running, Lassie, I promise.  Now, you better get out of here, Gus is due back any second, and I can guarantee you don‘t want to see the Chocolate Colombo go off.”

    Tucking the envelope back into his pocket, Lassie headed out the door, listening to Shawn serenade the cat with the chorus of ‘Dancing Queen.’  A second later he passed Guster, and a second after that an earsplitting “SHAWN!” resounded around the block.

    Yes, everything had changed.

    But it was going to be just fine.    
      
    

 

 


End file.
